Breaking the Beast
by Woof
Summary: For every tale a beginning. Ten years after a fateful cold November evening in Transylvania, Abraham Van Helsing copes with the dangerous prisoner in his basement... (My first Hellsing fic. Criticism greatly appreciated.)
1. Chapter 1

The creature had retreated to the deep shadows at the back of his cell, his form all but imperceptible but for the two glowing points of red that glared from the inky blackness with steady, sullen hatred. I crossed the stone-flagged floor of the basement study and stopped before the iron bars, reinforced with threads of blessed silver, that separated him from me. There was no indication of movement from within the cell. He was not even feigning breath this evening. I knew better than to be lulled by seeming apathy, though, and kept myself out of arm's reach.

I set my lantern down on the work desk, illuminating the stacks of dusty, moldering books on the floor and the piles of scattered parchment, with their decade's worth of my considered charts and arcane scribblings, on the tabletop itself. The lamplight did nothing to illuminate the cell and its occupant, however; if anything, the shadows in the back seemed to deepen and draw more inscrutably together.

"Good evening, Count."

There was no immediately forthcoming reciprocation of my greeting. In fact, the silence grew subtly more stifling. Accustomed to such moods, I waited patiently. A full minute passed that felt like an eternity, with no sound but that of my own blood in my ears. Doubtless he could hear it too. Finally, the silence was parted by a susurrant whisper that issued from no visible mouth:

"I wouldn't know."

The words were carefully enunciated and bitten off with bitter precision. The Count had striven diligently and with considerable success to eradicate all trace of a Hungarian accent from his speech throughout the years of his internment. Although he was rarely forthcoming with explanations for his behaviour, I had hypothesized that this particular idiosyncrasy was an attempt to further distance himself from his former, human life.

"No," I agreed, for there were no windows in these subterranean rooms, "I suppose you wouldn't. I do apologize for that."

"Your contrition is infinitely appreciated," the voice hissed dryly. Then, "What is it to be tonight, Professor: Fire? Holy water? Perhaps you've discovered a way to bottle sunlight? It's been some nights since you last visited."

I felt his presence in my mind, probing for the answers even as he asked the questions. It was like cold fingers groping along the inside of my skull. With an effort – betrayed, unfortunately, by a twitch of my cheek – I pushed him out and shut the doors tightly behind. He chuckled. I spoke swiftly over his mirth. "Did you miss me?"

"Clearly, but one day I'll strike the target," was the dark retort. Voice dripping with sarcasm, he added, "I do get so lonely down here without you." I heard a faint rustle as he shifted in the blackness, and then stepped forward quite suddenly into the lamplight.

He was a haggard-looking creature, the burning crimson eyes sunk deeply in their sockets, the face drawn in a cadaverous parody of once human features. His hair hung unchecked in straggled, dirty ebony locks over his face and shoulders; his skin looked like dried parchment and his lips were drawn back in a perpetual rictus grimace, exposing the bloodless gums and unnaturally elongated eyeteeth.

The humanitarian in me felt a momentary pang of pity for such a wasted being, but it was crushed swiftly by the remembered thought that this pitiful-seeming creature was no man, but a monster of the most degenerate calibre. He had killed, and would kill, with thoughtless pleasure at wading through innocent blood, if he were again given the opportunity.

A glimmer in the eyes, locked with mine, indicated that he had read my face if not my thoughts. "Pity the monster," he whispered mirthlessly, lifting a hand to wrap his fingers around one of the bars of his cell. Then his head tilted slightly, a new awareness coming to his emaciated features as he scented the air. "You've bled recently."

Unconsciously I touched a hand to my left elbow, from the inner curve of which I had indeed drawn a sample earlier in the day. How he could detect such a subtle pinprick was beyond my comprehension, but I managed to conceal my surprise. "How long has it been," I countered in a professional tone, "since you've fed?"

He scowled and withdrew a step from the bars. "You know the answer to that."

"I know how long it's been since you were last served. Judging by your current… state, I'll wager that's not the last time you fed."

"Pig's blood!" he spat contemptuously. A gobbet of sticky saliva slapped the floor by my foot.

"You know the difficulty in finding willing human donors to fund my research." I felt myself smile grimly. "It's hard enough to convince them that you exist, much less that your… unique abilities, shall we say, should be studied."

"The jailor need not justify himself to his prisoner," he observed, almost reproachfully it seemed to my ears. Interesting.

In any case, it was just as well for the purpose of tonight's intent that he be weakened by his prideful self-imposed starvation. I drew breath briskly, stepping over to the desk. "I should like to see your hands, please." It never hurt to be polite, I thought, as I drew from a drawer the silver manacles I'd utilized in previous experiments. The shackles were etched with a considered combination of holy and pagan symbols, and thus far had proven successful in restraining the creature from struggling in their grip.

"Why?" he asked, coyly.

I had found that it was far easier to be straightforward with him than to play games. "Because," I replied in a matter-of-fact manner, as I adjusted the ungainly device to accept the prisoner's wrists, "I intend to put to trial a new etching, with a new type of ink. And as your hands are the most easily accessible parts of your anatomy through the bars…" I held up the heavy block of engraved silver, brows expectantly lifted.

"And if I refuse?" he wanted to know; as if he were inquiring what weather I thought the next day might bring.

I kept my tone even. "Then I shall ask Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward to assist me with the chains."

He hissed a definite note of displeasure. There were a bare handful of names that could enflame such raw hatred as he held for me; but those were two of them.

"Your hands, please," I insisted politely.

He continued to hiss and mumble quietly to himself, a smattering of disconnected Hungarian reaching my ears: his temper had evidently overcome his studied abandonment of his native roots. Then, quite suddenly, he quieted and approached the bars to thrust his hands through, resting his wrists on the crossbar. His expression had become calmly obedient; which put me on guard.

I stepped forward cautiously with the restraining device, observant of his eyes. They were half-lidded now with bored resignation, but I was quite certain I could detect a glimmer of dangerous mischief beneath their glazed veneer. I halted once more at the edge of arm's reach. "If you would extend your right hand, please."

Without complaint the pale, long-fingered appendage lifted and stretched forth to settle gently with wrist in the cuff of the silver shackle. I took one small step closer to give myself room to work, and painstakingly secured the restraint by its three bolted clasps. "Now the other," I instructed, continuing to eye him warily, though with one hand already secured, his options for disobedience were diminished.

Leisurely, he extended his left hand and placed it in the cuff beside the first, his eyes showing a hint of amusement at my caution. I moved to snap the shackle shut.

It was then that he struck, with such blinding swiftness that his arm seemed a blur as it shot forward out of the cuff, elongating impossibly past me. The fingers clamped a clammy grip about the back of my neck and yanked forward, pulling me off balance so that I stumbled against the bars and dropped the half-secured manacle block. It swung downward with a clatter of metal on metal, dangling from the Count's right wrist.

I gasped as the stench of his decayed breath washed hotly over my cheek. His grip was like iron, threatening to crush my spinal column at the base of my skull. "Pity me now, Professor," he invited with a whispered laugh. I felt the disgusting pressure of his tongue against my neck as it probed the contours of my throat.

My left arm flailed upward; I snatched hold of the golden cross on its chain about my neck; thrust it palm upward into the monster's throat and smelt the stench of searing flesh as it made contact with his skin. He laughed the louder, contemptuously, but I felt him give backwards by a bare inch. Enough to spare breathing space between my carotid and his fangs as my right hand fumbled urgently for the .38 Smith and Wesson in my pocket.

"In… God's name…" I gasped around the cold iron bar pressed into my cheek. As his laughter howled around me, I thrust my right hand upward with its fistful of metal, and discharged a bullet into his face.

He was flung backward by the shot, as was I, my right ear ringing painfully as I fell to the cold stone floor. I dropped the gun and clapped my hand over my ear with a breathless gasp and forced my eyes back to the cell. He, too, had fallen; but the manacle encasing his right wrist had caught against the narrow aperture of the cell bars and jolted his momentum short. He had swung around from the force and half-dangled now, his back to me, his right arm twisted at a grotesque angle above his head. The left flailed wildly as an agonized shriek sputtered from the oozing mass of thick, congealed blood that had been his face.

I fought against the trip hammer pounding of my own heart. He had moved so swiftly; his arm had reached… unnaturally, impossibly… I pushed to my feet and stumbled to the desk, yanking open a drawer and withdrawing a flask of brandy; of which I quickly consumed two swallows and then replaced.

I pressed a hand to my heart and drew a deep breath as I turned back to the cell. My fingers brushed and then grasped the cross dangling over my rumpled shirt, and I stared in grim fascination as my prisoner, still gibbering incoherently, nevertheless began inexorably to regenerate his wounds. A dull clatter rang hollowly as the bullet fell from its lodging in his skull and struck the cell floor.

I moved quickly, anxious to have him restrained before he could fully recover. Removing the gold chain about my neck, I secured it instead around my left hand so that the cross hung centered over my palm, and then daringly thrust it between the bars, catching hold of his left wrist and pulling it toward me. There was a faint hissing sensation from the cross, sandwiched between his flesh and mine. His half-reformed features let out a snarl of pain and he attempted to jerk out of my grasp, but I now had him at a disadvantage: his back to the bars, with his arms thrust upward and out behind him on my side of the barrier. I twisted the half-sealed manacle block around and forced his left wrist into the second, open cuff, and bound it securely.

I swung the latches and twisted the bolts to secure the block to the iron bars and finally stepped back, breathing hard. The Count continued to struggle for some moments, then seemed to realize the futility of the effort and slumped, his limbs grotesquely akimbo in their awkward trappings. He was suddenly silent, no further sign of activity forthcoming but for a very faint, vague sort of sucking sound as his flesh drew together and sluggishly mended. I watched with an inward chill as the black brand mark the cross had made on his wrist faded to an angry red weal, and then nothing. I stooped to pick up the bullet where it had fallen near the bars, kneading it thoughtfully between my fingers. Silver, into the brain, and already he was recovering.

I stumbled backward and dropped into the chair at the desk, letting the bullet fall to the tabletop as I cradled my head against my hand, my gaze still morbidly fixed on the monster's back.

He was growing stronger. Ten years past, when the five of us had cornered and bound him, a priest's blessing on an ornamental cross affixed to the lid of his coffin had been enough to contain him. He had since been permanently transferred to this dungeon cell, with its reinforcements of silver and arcane inscriptions; every brick had been mixed with holy water in its formation.

I now wondered, and not for the first time, how much longer it would hold him.

To my deepest chagrin, I supposed that I was at least in part to blame for the increased threat he now represented. In my years of study, testing the abilities and limits of vampiric flesh and mind, I might have unwittingly allowed him to build a tolerance to those things that were normally bane to such creatures: fire, crosses, silver. Sunlight? I shivered. To think that ten years ago he had been unable to cross running water at will. Tonight's exhibition caused me even more concern: it seemed he had learned a new trick. How much longer before he found a way to twist his body past his restraints entirely?

I pressed my lips together firmly. All the more reason to proceed with all allowable haste.

I patted my breast pocket and fumbled the button open, withdrawing the small vial I'd placed within earlier. To my gratification, the glass was still intact. I gave it a brief shake, the deep red liquid within swirling with a faintly metallic sheen; and then decisively plucked a stylus from the desktop. If nothing else, my itinerary for tonight would be kept.

Back to my prisoner once more. I approached the bars without qualm this time, for I doubted that he could engineer a way to reach me from his current position even if he weren't occupied regenerating the upper portion of his head. I unstoppered the glass vial and tilted it to dip the writing stylus within, giving it time to absorb the thick red ink.

This was a solution of my own contrivance: the outgrowth of the past several days' concentrated research. It contained the usual basic components of most inks: gum, vitriol, tannin; but I had used holy water and a touch of silver nitrate for the solution. The final ingredient – to which it attributed its deep red coloration – was the reason I had earlier stuck myself with the needle: my own blood.

I had experimented before, with various substances, on the regenerative qualities of my prisoner's flesh, seeking the key to reproducing it. My objective tonight was otherwise: I desired – needed – to make a marking that he could not heal over. Blood, that precious substance upon which his every transgression was founded and his very existence dependent: blood, I hoped, would be the final key to binding the tattoo to his flesh on a permanent basis.

The stylus loaded, I restoppered the vial and tucked it under the last three fingers of my left hand, reaching with index finger and thumb to grasp the creature's own digits and pull them gently outward, exposing the hand. I watched him another moment for any sign of movement, and then drew a bold score across the center of his palm.

The ink scorched through his skin like a hot knife, leaving an angry, blackened reddish fissure. A screech of sudden fury emitted from his slumped form and his hand gave a convulsive jerk; but the shackles held him fast. "Save your strength," I gritted as he writhed, his legs kicking with protest at the stone floor. Indeed, I wanted him to do his best to heal this violation of his being: I had to find his limits before he grew beyond them.

I swiftly slashed four more lines across his palm, branding a rough pentagram sigil into the ancient flesh. He screamed anew with each stroke, fighting his bonds like a madman; and I felt an uplifting of hope. If this new mixture hurt him so badly, perhaps I was on the right track at least. There was no consideration of pity as I refilled my pen and duplicated the seal on his other hand. With his most recent treachery fresh in mind, I felt assured in the knowledge that I was dealing with a monster and acting in the best interests of humankind.

Leaving him shackled, hissing and swearing at me in multiple tongues, I restored my instruments to order and rearranged my clothing so as not to cause concern with the rest of the household. I fastened the cross once more about my neck, tucked it neatly under my shirt and straightened my tie. I made sure the safety was on the gun and replaced it in my pocket, then picked up the lantern, angling it for one more good look at the creature's hands. The marks still looked fresh, but I'd give him a day and see where I stood then.

"Good night, Count," I bid him calmly, crossed the room and shut the door on the frenzied invectives that followed.


	2. Chapter 2

I was in the manor chapel, three days later, when my son knocked twice and entered to announce the arrival of a guest. I looked up briskly from the roll of parchment spread out on the table before me and tucked my pen into my vest pocket. "Yes, thank you Gabriel. Show him in here, please."

I removed my spectacles and cleaned the glass absently with a handkerchief as I reviewed the markings I'd carefully charted onto the parchment. The pentagram-centric sigil seemed more appropriate to the dungeons beneath the house than this peaceful sanctum, but by the same token I'd felt more at ease constructing it here. The impertinently bold script of my Latin returned to clear focus as I replaced my eyeglasses; but now my gaze was drawn to the chapel entry as Gabriel returned with our visitor.

"Jonathan," I smiled, crossing the annex to extend my hand to the slim, white-haired gentleman in the doorway. "I apologize greatly for asking your presence on such notice; but I thank you for coming."

"Doctor Van Helsing," he replied cordially, clasping my hand. It had been some years since last I had seen Jonathan Harker, but time had been kind. His grip was firm, and he seemed more relaxed, more the young man I knew him to be, rather than the haunted, harrowed soul with whom I had last parted ways.

"I trust my son has made a proper introduction?" A quick exchange of smiles assured me that he had; and I gave the boy a gestured dismissal to keep a watch for later arrivals.

Harker threw his glance about the room. "Well. You have cleaned things up around the old place, haven't you?"

"Yes," I agreed, quickly anticipating his next query and speaking before he could utter it. "Please, come," I bid him follow me to the table. "I should like you to understand my plan. How is your family?"

"Well, thank you. Quincey shall be eight this November; oh, and Mina bid me send her greetings…." He trailed off as we came to the table and his eyes fell upon my scribings. "Dear God…."

"It is an unholy seeming thing, is it not?" I tilted my head in wry acknowledgement. "But it is the culmination of many years of study. I only hope it will serve our purpose. This—" I pointed a finger at one segment of the seal, but he interrupted me.

"That's my bit, isn't it?" He leaned over the table for closer review, then nodded. "Yes… I can see it." He drew back, falling quiet for a thoughtful moment as his hands unconsciously wrung together; then he recovered his composure. "Is… _he_… here?"

I patted his shoulder with grave assurance. "He is securely bound. Let's not concern ourselves with such things until we must."

"I would like to see him," he murmured, most unexpectedly, his eyes fixed on the crucifix upon the terminal wall of the room, but his gaze somewhere far distant.

I placed a hand gently upon his forearm to forestall further wringing. "Later," I murmured, then in a more hearty tone suggested, "You must be weary from your trip. May I suggest a bit of dinner while we wait for the others?"

His eyes flew to my face, with an expression of relief, I thought, for the welcome distraction. "Ah… yes. Yes," he agreed, drawing a deep breath to settle himself. "That would be excellent."

We repaired to the parlour and I asked the maid to bring us whatever might handily be acquired from the kitchen. We made out quite well with cold chicken, fruit and wine, and had just settled down to a cup of tea when the front bell rang. Harker froze in mid-sip, apprehension momentarily returning; but I rose from my chair most eagerly to greet the new arrivals as my son escorted them in.

"The Honorable Lord Godalming, and Doctor Seward to see you, Father."

"Yes, please come in!" I welcomed my old acquaintances most heartily, shaking hands with each in turn. "Arthur… Jack. Thank you, all," I extended a hand to Jonathan to include him in my speech, "for coming on such short notice. I fear time may be of the essence."

"Van Helsing has but to call," Godalming observed agreeably, with a little put-on bow.

"Jonathan, it's been a while, hasn't it. How have you been?"

As the three exchanged pleasantries, I drew Gabriel aside and pressed into his hand a small key from my vest pocket. "The flat box in the third drawer of the dressing table in my bedroom. Please bring it down."

The boy nodded and rushed to complete his errand. I returned to my guests. "My friends." I was gratified by the speed with which they transferred their focus attentively to me. "I wish that this were a more pleasant circumstance to meet; but I trust you read the intent between the lines of my letters and know why I have gathered us all here tonight. Our… mutual acquaintance, the Count—"

"Dracula," Harker interposed, his voice hollow.

"How is the old brute?" Seward inquired.

"Little changed," I replied, with a slight frown; "but he has given me recent cause for concern." I quickly relayed the details of my encounter with the prisoner three nights previous, and outlined, in brief, my plan for this night's activities. "Jonathan," I noted in conclusion, "has seen some inkling of what I intend. Thank you, Gabriel," I remarked to the boy as he returned with the package. "You've all met my son: he'll be assisting us tonight in the absence of Mr. Morris."

"Old Quincey couldn't ask a better substitute," Godalming approved. "How old are you now, boy?"

"Fifteen, sir."

"Good Lord, time flies, doesn't it?"

"It does, sir."

"For some," I heard myself muse softly; shook my head and glanced at the window. "The sun is just setting. If we retrieve our… friend, before he's fully awakened, this will be all the easier." A sense of solemn purpose seemed to settle over the group. "Arthur, Jack: I'll ask that you handle the chains. He has already been shackled." I crossed the room and unlocked the gun cabinet, withdrawing a particular revolver and handing it to Jonathan, who was beginning to look rather pale. "Silver bullets," I informed him as he checked to see that it was loaded. "I'd prefer that he be intact for this, but just in case…." Harker nodded with grim determination.

We stood, the four compatriots and the boy, in silent readiness; then I observed: "Once more I ask you to follow me into the waiting jaws of the beast. Of all men in this world, he will fear us. Be strong, my friends. And God be with us."

There was a murmur of agreement. I led the way to the cellar.

The study felt particularly close this evening, as I turned the heavy key in the door and led my small band inside, lantern held high. It was as if the shadows themselves were holding their breath in anticipation. The prisoner lay slumped in much the same position as I'd left him three days ago, unmoving; but somehow I could feel that he was awake.

"You've brought friends," he observed, before I could speak a greeting to the back of his head.

"Did you expect otherwise, after that display the other night?" I stopped before the cell and gestured to Arthur and Jack to retrieve the chains from the cabinets. They had assisted me on rare occasions previous, and knew what to do. Gabriel stood to my left, clutching his parcel to his chest. There was trepidation in his eyes, but the boy was no stranger to monsters, and his face was unafraid. I felt a brief surge of pride. To my right, Jonathan grimly trained his pistol at the vampire, his lips set in a thin line.

Dracula tilted his head slightly. "No…" he murmured, unbelieving; then a delighted laugh rippled from his throat. It was a deep, strong sound – no one, upon hearing it, would have guessed that his face had been recently shot off – but the effect on we mere mortals was like nails on slate. I suppressed a shudder.

"Harker!" he cried, having evidently recognized the scent. "My old, dear friend, you haven't finally come to visit me, have you?"

"You maintain a strange definition of 'friend,' Count," Jonathan gritted evenly.

"I must count what friends I can, for so few come to see me in the Professor's benevolent care." The prisoner spoke to the wall at the back of the cell, for he was unable to twist to face us. "Tell me: how is Miss Mina? Is she still as delightful as I remember, or has motherhood diminished her nubile charms?"

"Enough!" I heard Jonathan cock the hammer of his gun and quickly placed a restraining hand on his arm. He managed a slight nod of acknowledgement, but his eyes brimmed with fury. Dracula chuckled mirthfully.

Seward approached with his instrument, and I set the lantern down to assist him. The "chain" to which I had referred was in fact rather more than that: a long steel pole with a short length of thick, silver-plated chain at one end. The end of the chain held a heavy clasp, which was in turn attached to a loop in a manacle block similar to the one already securing the prisoner. I turned this sideways to ease it through the bars, and left it for the moment. I would need to be inside to properly secure it. I took a moment while at the bars to examine the vampire's hands: the pentagramic marks I had made on the palms had faded slightly, but were still clearly visible, as on my brief inspections the two previous nights. Excellent.

Godalming had fastened his pole-chain to a sturdy silver collar, which I now took from him and, cautiously, reached between the bars to place around the vampire's neck. "Jonathan, please shoot him if he moves," I requested blandly, trying to keep my mind on dull, pleasant things to ease the flow of adrenaline in my veins. The last thing we needed was for the Count to get excited by the sound of hammering heartbeats.

My concerns proved groundless in this particular case, though: the prisoner remained almost unnaturally still as I drew the thick collar round his neck and screwed the binding secure in the back. I inquired and received confirmation from Arthur that he had a firm grip.

I now put key to the heavy lock on the cell door, and opened it with a solid metallic click. Glancing once more at my assistants to be sure that I was covered by gun and chain, I swung the door open and slipped inside. Still Dracula made no move. "Stand up, please."

His crimson eyes swiveled up at me from his shadowed countenance, and I saw the faint hint of a smile in the flash of white fangs. "Where are we going?"

"You'll find out. Stand up, please." I took hold of the pole at the base of his collar on this side of the bars and gave it a nudge to prod him into movement. With unnatural grace for a man with his arms twisted and bound behind him, he rose silently to his feet. He towered over me, a grim cadaverous shade. I was exquisitely aware of my danger now; but Godalming's firm presence on the other side of the pole was reassuring.

I took the manacle that dangled from Seward's pole and set it in place immediately behind the one that was fastened to the bars. Working quickly, for I was by no means certain how long my prisoner's placid attitude would persist, I secured the bindings to his forearms, and then loosened those on the original. "Step forward," I instructed with a calm I did not feel. I summoned Gabriel with a gesture to come inside and take hold of the second pole.

I heard the ghost of a chuckle as Dracula complied; for this was all evidently part of a game to him. Between the four of us, under Harker's vigilant gun, we slowly maneuvered the prisoner away from the front of the cell and shifted places so that Godalming and Seward finally held him at pole's length, free from the bars. Throughout this delicate operation I could see him flexing his arms, testing the strength of the bindings, but he seemed to decide that he was held fast for the time being, and stood calmly awaiting my next instructions. I supposed he was simply eager for the so-rare chance to be out of the cell, whether it was in shackles or not.

Then I saw his eyes, locked on Harker as he faced him for the first time in nearly ten years. Jonathan's hands shook around their grip on the revolver; all of the blood seemed to have drained from his face but for a single spot of brilliant red as the fierce set of his jaw caused him to bite down on his own lower lip.

"Stop!" I commanded furiously, recognizing the trick. I threw myself between the two, heedless of the gun that was now pointed squarely at me. The important thing was that I break eye contact; and as I interposed myself I saw Jonathan gasp sharply with a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and step back, wiping a hand over his eyes. I felt another whisper of laughter float down from behind me.

"That… _bastard_," Jonathan snarled. "The things he shows me—no, I won't shoot him, Doctor," he assured me as he met my concerned gaze. "Not unless I have to. I know his game now." A mask seemed to settle over his expression as he turned his attention back to the Count; but he did not look at his face.

Quite a parade we were set to make, now. "Let's go," I ordered quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

We marched in grim formation from the dungeon and through the little-used back corridors of the mansion: the Count, tall and imposing at our center, flanked by Godalming and Seward as the keepers of his bindings. I walked ahead with Gabriel, and Harker brought up the rear, our guard against any unexpected move from the prisoner.

It was not until I threw the chapel doors open and strode inside that we encountered our first difficulty. The Count balked at the threshold, a sneer of distaste plain upon his gaunt features. I paused to look over my shoulder as I heard the faltering of footsteps behind me. "Please enter," I invited calmly, deliberately misreading his expression.

The vampire snorted superciliously. "It wasn't for your lack of invitation that I paused." Godalming and Seward, the unenviable wardens, stepped inside and mutually braced themselves to drag the prisoner bodily in; but he suddenly seemed to change his mind and entered of his own accord. "All right then," he smirked, observing his surroundings with an unimpressed air, "You have me in your little church. Shall I kneel and say a prayer with you, now?"

"Not bloody likely," Harker uttered under his breath as he entered and shut the doors behind him. Dracula merely smiled and watched me: almost indulgently, as if he found our actions sadly amusing.

"Move him to the center of the floor," I instructed my assistants with an illustrative wave of one hand, holding out the other to my son to take the package he'd carried. The Count put up a token resistance at being so positioned; Jonathan and Gabriel quickly moved to assist the other two with his unwieldy lurching.

I set the flat box on the table where I'd previously laid my etching, and murmured a soft prayer as I lifted the lid with both hands. Within lay two items: a nondescript, worn leather pouch, and an American bowie knife. I lifted one in each hand with reverent care. Dracula's struggle ceased in a moment, as his eyes fell upon the knife, then flickered to me with an expression of sudden, renewed hatred.

"I'm glad you recognize it," I commented blandly, tucking it carefully into my belt and then plucking at the drawstring that held the pouch shut.

Jonathan peered at me. "Is that…?"

"The weapon of Quincey Morris, which he plunged into our prisoner's heart ten years hence; and so weakened him that we could take him. Yes," I confirmed, approaching the vampire with the now-open pouch in my left hand, heedless of the murderous glow in his eyes; my four companions held him fast with his silver bindings. I dipped my right hand into the bag, and withdrew a few grains of the precious dust within. "Gott mit uns." _God with us,_ I whispered, looking into the empty eyes of the beast. "I swear upon my soul, if you cannot be killed, you shall be bound. Hold him well," I raised my voice in warning, and flung the dust into the vampire's face.

An unholy shriek rose from his unliving lungs and shattered against the rafters as the ancient granules of the Holy Wafer fell upon his bare flesh. He struggled in earnest now, thrashing against his bonds. I saw, from the corner of my eye, Jack and Gabriel lifted bodily off the floor as they tenaciously held onto the rod binding his arms. Arthur rallied with a bold cry; he and Jonathan yanked the Count off balance, allowing the others to regain their footing.

"Hold him!" I repeated urgently, as with the precious contents of the pouch I began to scribe a pattern on the floor. The Enemy lunged for me, but I dared not break in my task. I had to trust to my friends, now; and they did not let me down, circling the Count in a deadly dance that kept him off-balance and unable to follow through on his murderous desire. I ducked around their weaving forms, eyes set upon the floor, a murmured stream of rehearsed Latin rolling from my lips, for whatever protection it might offer me from the Evil writhing above my head.

I drew a final stroke in the dust and fell back as fangs snapped, bare inches from my face. "Careful!" I yelled, pushing to my feet.

"Sorry Father— we have him now!"

Dracula threw his head back and howled with laughter. "This is the best you can do? Dust? You think that dust will contain _me_?" His form twisted unnaturally, his face darkening and taking on dire wolfish proportions. Jack and Gabriel let out a unified yell and gave their chain a deft twist that caused him to stumble sideways; and despite his mocking words, as his body brushed the invisible barrier extending upward from the inscription on the floor, he recoiled with a snarl of pain.

"I do not," I gasped, drawing the bowie knife from my belt. About the undead lord's feet I had drawn the familiar pentagram, using the blessed dust of the Sacred Wafer. But that was only the basis for my conjuration.

"Let me go first, Professor," I heard a voice at my elbow, and turned to see Jonathan, holding his hand out for the knife with grim solemnity. His shock of white hair had flown unbound in the struggle, giving him a wild, unearthly mien. Bitter vengeance glittered in his eyes.

I pressed the hilt of the weapon into his hand. "You know what to do." I put my hand on the steel pole chained to the prisoner's neck and exchanged places with the younger man.

Harker drew a steadying breath and faced the enemy, eyes unblinking as he looked upon the contorted, bestial face. "For my love," he whispered; wrapped his left hand firmly about the blade of the knife and drew it sharply back. Crimson welled betwixt his clenched fingers and dripped in a solemn stream to the floor.

As his blood touched the Wafer, I thought I perceived a faint luminescence radiate from the seal of dust. Dracula screamed suddenly and dropped to one knee, his partial transformation sharply reversed. He fought wildly against the bonds on his wrists as his hands spasmed and clenched in agony. "What are you doing? Stop it now!"

Harker kissed his clenched, bleeding fist, and held the dagger out with his right hand, offering it hilt upward to Seward. Trancelike, the doctor let go his hold on the pole and took the weapon, taking his place beside Harker at the next point of the pentagram. "For God in Heaven," he uttered, drawing the stained blade boldly across his own flesh. His blood spattered sharply.

Again I perceived that faint glow rising, and as if of some incomprehensible will, the rivulets of crimson upon the floor mingled and began to flow into a distinct pattern about the pentagram. Dracula bowed his head and flexed mightily, straining against his bonds. I saw one of the clasps of his shackles pop. "It's working!" I cried huskily, urgently. "Hurry!"

Gabriel dropped the rod on the floor and took the bowie from Seward, his young face hardened and aged beyond his years. "For the dead at peace!" he declared, in homage to the man whose knife he now held; and sliced his palm open, his blood splashing on the dust and cold stone.

The room seemed to darken as an imagined wind caught the Count's hair and lifted it like a live thing, as if it too struggled against the bonds. I was ever more conscious, in the deepening gloom, of the crimson radiance that intensified with each drop of sacrificed blood.

"Arthur," I uttered hoarsely, and Godalming claimed the dagger with silent dignity, driving the point into his hand and slashing outward. "For Lucy," he announced softly, holding his hand out over the fourth point of the pentagram, palm downward to let the blood fall freely. He extended the knife wordlessly to me, and I took my place in the circle.

A bone-chilling snarl ripped forth from the center of the seal as Dracula staggered to his feet, held no longer by the chains that dangled unattended from his bindings. "Arrogant filth," he spat, smiling. With a wholly inhuman exertion he heaved and shattered the bonds of silver about his wrists. He thrust his hands into the surrounding barrier of glowing red and cried out, half in pain and half in lustful triumph as the unnatural wind whipped and scattered the dust upon the floor.

"Doctor Van Helsing!" Harker shouted frantically.

I had to maintain my calm. Beyond the looming shade of demonic power that was our Enemy, I met my son's eyes across the circle, and spoke my dedication:

"For my blood."

I was hardly aware of drawing the knife across my palm; but I saw my vitae splash upon the floor and hiss, smoking as the seal drew complete. I turned my eyes upward again, in taut anticipation, to the raging devil I imagined we had bound.

A cold, clammy hand gripped my insides as I met the creature's eyes and heard his defiant laughter. The unearthly red of the seal upon the ground was matched by the throbbing crimson of the brands upon his palms. His form seemed to waver to my eyes, as though seen through an imperfect mirror. The silver collar about his neck turned black and clattered to the floor.

I heard my companions cry out in pain; saw them sink to their knees in the face of the maelstrom of shadow; and I staggered backward in horror.

"Gott in Himmel!"

I heard the words uttered but they seemed far too distant to have come from my lips. The brands on his hands. The sister seals I had placed upon him in the thought that their presence would bind him irrevocably to our master work. I could see them suspended before my eyes as his form continued to contort, dissolving into a mass of shadow filled with glaring crimson eyes; but his hands remained, taunting.

The brands upon his palms had taken on the aspect of the greater one we had just forged, the arcane markings glowing first red and then deepening to blackest pitch as he twisted reality to suit his will. I forced myself to think the thought that brought horror beyond rationality: I had done this.

In branding him I had indeed succeeded in binding him to the seal; but instead of becoming entangled in its trappings, he was somehow feeding off of it. Off of us: for it was by our blood it had been formed. I now felt the drain that had staggered my companions, and dimly sank to one knee. There was nothing left in the world but the glaring shadows and his mocking laughter. My gaze fell downward in despair.

It landed on the bowie knife still clutched desperately in my right hand. "For my blood," I whispered bitterly.

For my blood.

_My_ blood, which had formed the binding component of the scores across his palms. Which flowed in the veins of the fallen boy across the rift of shadows that separated us. My blood, which surged strength to my wearied limbs as I lurched to my feet, letting out a scream of defiance.

"You cannot best me, demon!" I roared, and slashed the knife fiercely across my forearm.

No token sacrificial trickle was this: crimson life fountained from my torn flesh and spattered violently on the floor. The mass of shadows before me seemed to recede and solidify slightly. I could _feel_ his surprise. I thrust my fist into the air and let out an exultant cry:

"You must drink!"

Then he was upon me, his fangs latching into my wounded arm with a sudden terrifying desperation. Oddly, I decided, I felt no pain. Merely a strange floating sensation as my life flowed from me into him. I could feel his presence again in my mind, like a tangible thing, pushing, prodding, fighting for dominance.

I fought back, dimly aware of the weak movements of my arms, vaguely cognizant of falling backward to the floor, but resolutely steadfast within the boundaries of my own mind. As my physical form grew weaker, I felt the power flowing through my imagined mental self and I grappled with him on equal footing. The frenzied struggle; the agony; it was… exquisite.

_I could end it now,_ he thought, as plainly as if he had spoken.

"No…" I murmured weakly, though in my mind I was pressing him back with a grim smile and inexorable force. _This… is only the beginning._

"Enough!" I cried, and felt him fall away from me. I opened my eyes, distantly registering the sight of the vampire thrust to the floor amid the tangle of bodies that had pulled him off me. I fumbled for the handkerchief in my pocket and pressed it dully against the wound on my arm, gasping for breath.

Jack moved swiftly to my side and applied pressure to the makeshift bandage, worried eyes roving over my face. "Doctor…?"

At that moment the vampire rose, thrusting his assailants away as though they were matchsticks. He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled broadly, a Cheshire Cat grin made grotesque as his tongue deliberately slid from his parted lips to lick my blood from his teeth. I lifted my unmarked hand weakly, grasping for the imagined barrier I dimly perceived suspended between myself and him; but Dr. Seward gently took it and replaced my arm at my side.

"Please don't exert yourself, Abraham. You've lost a lot of blood."

_Yes, you need to rest… _I stared, uncomprehending at the looming form of the undead lord. _…Master._

As his musing chuckle echoed in my head, I found the strength to force one last utterance from my lips. "Get out of my sight."

In a startling swirl of shadows, he was gone. I was dimly aware of my shocked companions crowding about me in concern; and then I, too, was gone, claimed by blissful unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

I woke slowly, to darkness and the familiar pattern of my bedroom ceiling. After some moments' disorientation, I caught sight of my bandaged left arm upon the coverlet, and memory came rushing back in a torrent, accompanied by a low groan.

"About time you woke up. I was starting to get bored."

I startled as the deep voice issued suddenly from across the room and awkwardly struggled to a sitting position against the pillows. _He_ was there: seated calmly in the chair in the corner as though he had every right, his chin resting upon his interlaced fingers as he watched me from the shadows.

"How did—what—?" Words of alarm caught in my throat and choked in the face of his sheer audacity. I threw myself sideways and fumbled blindly for the pistol in the bedside table drawer. It wasn't there.

"That won't be necessary," his smooth murmur interposed on my awkward grasping. I looked up, and saw the pistol dangling as he held it up between finger and thumb. "I thought you might be… excitable when you woke, so I took the liberty of insuring against it." He sounded almost apologetic. Almost. He tossed the gun lightly to me so that it landed with a soft bounce on the bedsheets. "Shoot me if you like," he invited in a bored tone, "but really, if I were here to kill you, I could have done so much more easily while you slept."

I snatched up the gun in my good hand and checked to see that it was loaded; but I left the safety on, peering puzzled at him across the room. My glasses had not been removed from the bedside table, and I picked these up deliberately, setting them on my face so that I could see him clearly.

The change in his countenance was shocking. Where last I had remembered a staring corpse, I saw now the firm features of a man in his prime. Sleek raven hair framed the high-cheekboned face, expressive lips pursed in a slight smirk at my scrutiny. He was still clad in prison rags, though, and the eyes that gazed back at me were still the burning red eyes of the monster.

"Why are you here?" I grasped on one of the multitude of questions tumbling in my thoughts.

"If not to kill you?" he countered with a light chuckle.

I frowned. "Do not mock me; tell me!"

He seemed to suffer a moment's internal conflict at the order, his face twisting in moderate annoyance; then he finally let out a slight, exasperated sigh, and replied. "You really don't know what you've done, do you?" He considered a moment. "But then, no one has ever done it before, so I suppose ignorance is expected." I let out an irritated exhalation at his dawdling, and he abruptly got to the point.

"That bloody Seal," he growled. "When you—"

There was a soft creak as the door opened; and he was instantly gone. "When I what?" I exclaimed in frustration, much to the confusion of my visitor, who crossed quickly to the bed in alarm when he saw the gun in my hand.

"Good God, Abraham, what are you doing?" He wrested the pistol gently from my grip and urged me back against the pillows, feeling my face for fever with the back of his hand.

"You didn't see him, Jack?" I murmured in puzzlement, my eyes still on the chair across the room.

"See whom?"

My eyes moved sharply to his face. "The Count."

He regarded me just as sharply for a moment; then his expression faded to one of deep concern. "None of us has seen him since last night."

"Last night?" I frowned, trying to account for lost hours.

"Yes, it was Tuesday evening when… when we all arrived, and it is now late Wednesday night. Actually, it's nearly Thursday now. You didn't seem sick, just very weak; so we thought it best to let you sleep." His tone indicated that he was now having second thoughts about the wisdom in that.

I waved off his worry irritably. "I am not suffering hallucinations, Jack; he was here, in this room, not a moment before you arrived."

This, predictably, did nothing to assuage his concerns. "We'd best mount a guard then. I don't know what happened last night, but if he's still hanging about…"

Oddly, I found myself shaking my head. "I don't think he means to harm me. Or he can't harm me, one or the other."

Seward frowned solicitously. "You should have some food in you," he soothed. "I'll have Gabriel bring you a tray—"

"No," I decided, "I've lain abed quite long enough; I can come downstairs like a civilized man. Are the others all right?"

"We're all fine. God only knows how. Arthur sustained a scratch when the Count threw him; but it's hardly worse than the cut he gave himself."

"Good. Give me a moment to dress myself, please, Jack. I promise I'll be right down."

The good doctor frowned reluctantly but acquiesced with a nod, and removed himself to the hallway. I looked sharply into the corner as the door shut behind him, but no smirking countenance was immediately discernable. Warily, I threw the covers back with my good arm and slid out of bed, moving to the dressing table.

"Count?" I address the darkness tentatively as I drew on a pair of trousers.

_I am here,_ I felt his bored reply.

"Show yourself."

He materialized quite suddenly by the dresser, leaning against it with arms folded, a peevish expression on his face. This was an unsettling contrast to the monster who had striven so violently to kill me the night before.

I pulled a clean shirt gingerly over the bandage on my arm. "I want an explanation."

He emitted an annoyed hiss through his teeth. "Congratulations," he uttered bitterly, "you have bested me. Can't you be satisfied with that and let the matter go?"

"If my understanding is correct," I began to fasten the buttons of my shirt, "then it was your taking of my blood, finally, that bound you to the Seal." I glanced up at him shortly when no response was forthcoming. "Tell me," I insisted firmly.

"Your understanding is better than that of some undead I've met." His gaze lingered for a moment on my left arm. "It is always blood that binds us. Without it we cannot survive; without spilling it history cannot march onward." His eyes glittered. "But I hadn't expected you to make the final sacrifice." His expression turned almost maudlin.

"Then we are both of us bound," I mused thoughtfully as I straightened my collar. I could almost feel it, like an invisible, tenuous leash stretched between us; but his sour scowl would have given all me the answer I needed anyway. I frowned, trying to recall the last few moments before the blackness took me. "You called me… Master?"

He suddenly seemed to take an intent interest in an undefined spot over my shoulder. "Did I? I don't recall."

I pursed my lips grimly. "Very well, Count. You may leave me for now – but not the grounds. And you are not permitted to harm anyone, or allow yourself to be seen, for the time being. You will return when I summon you. Is that understood?"

He gave a little sarcastic bow. "Intimately," he snarled, and melted into the shadows.

I exited the room and made my way downstairs slowly, too lost in my own thoughts to protest Seward's steadying hand on my arm. My companions rose, almost as one as we entered the parlour, all eyes fastened anxiously upon me: but one pair more so than the rest.

"Gabriel," I said quietly.

The boy – no, the young man – hastened to my side, replacing Seward's hand upon my right arm as the good doctor graciously stepped aside. I grasped vainly for the appropriate words to explain; but as his gaze fell first upon my bandaged wound, and then met my eyes, I knew that he knew. My blood was his blood. My actions, ultimately, would be his responsibility.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

His grip tightened briefly on my arm. "Don't apologize. You did what had to be done, Father. I'm not sure I could have." A shadow seemed to fall across his face as he considered the alternative. "I just thank God you're all right."

"And I'll second that, Doctor," Jonathan spoke up, to a chorus of agreeing murmurs. "But I think we'd all feel a lot better if you could explain to us exactly what did happen in there." He waved a hand in the vague direction of the chapel.

Jack smiled wryly. "We've been picking poor Gabe's brain so thoroughly I'm surprised he has any wits left. But he's the only one who seems to have any real clue; and not much of one at that."

I had to admit that I, too, was somewhat unclear on the results of our actions. "We have succeeded in binding the beast, of that much we can rest assured. But the method by which this was accomplished… this will require more study. Much more study." Suddenly wearied, I sank into one of the armchairs and massaged my temples.

Gabriel offered quickly, "Let me get you something to eat, Father. We sent the staff away earlier: no reason they shouldn't have the day off when all of us can as easily take care of ourselves…" he caught himself rambling and set off abruptly for the kitchen.

"So," Arthur sat down at the edge of his chair, leaning forward as he looked to me anxiously for news. "What's happened, then? If the Enemy's been bound as you say, then where is he? He's certainly not still tied up in the chapel."

"What has happened is that I have been a great fool; but that may yet turn out for the best. As to where he is: he is nearby, but he is no longer a threat. In taking my blood he bound himself irrevocably to our Seal; and to me."

This was met with a moment of stunned silence. Then Jonathan gave voice to the question hanging in the air: "To you?"

"Yes. I spoke with him before I came downstairs." This revelation brought another chorus of concerned murmurs. I held up my hand for peace. "If he had been able to kill me, I think that he would have done so. He certainly seems no more fond of me tonight than ever. But it seems he is compelled to obey my will."

Arthur frowned. "For how long?"

"Until my death, I should imagine."

"And then?"

I threw a glance at the door through which Gabriel had exited. "Then it will fall to my son to keep him leashed."

"A living Seal," Dr. Seward mused. "One which he cannot outgrow; for it would grow with him."

Godalming continued to frown, but finally relented. "You must be right, Doctor; but I don't envy you the task. Or your son."

Harker appeared ill at ease. "It seems like keeping a poisonous viper as a pet, to me."

"A viper, yes," I replied, "but he has had his fangs removed."

I felt the distant whisper of droll laughter in response to my choice of words, and repressed a shudder.


	5. Chapter 5

I asked the cabman to let me out a quarter-mile from the estate, claiming the pleasant evening and a need to stretch my legs as good enough excuses. The vaulted rooftops and tower rooms of the old Carfax manor were just visible over the treetops in the deep gloaming. I hefted the small case I'd brought with me – the rest of my effects would be delivered to the house on the morning – and tipped the driver, who seemed more than happy enough to wheel his horse around and be away from the place with all speed.

I watched him until the cab disappeared over a slight rise in the road, allowing a sigh of resignation pass my lips. That the place I had called home for some ten years was still widely considered by the locals to be haunted was only half the problem: I myself seemed to be regarded as something of a local quack by the common man. The perils of being widely considered the top of one's field; that is at least, when one's field had somehow expanded from the study of diseases of the blood to the investigation of anything the Queen's constabulary deemed to be beyond their understanding; or to use their personal vernacular: "right queer."

This particular jaunt had been nothing so exciting: merely a convention of old colleagues, although the keynote speaker had had some interesting points to say on the subject of medical forensics. I shrugged at the now-vacant street, adjusted my grip on the case and set off along the roadside toward the manor, whistling softly.

"Old men shouldn't be out on the road alone at night. Who knows what might jump out at them?"

I had been expecting this; but nonetheless it took a conscious effort of will not to startle as the darkness coalesced into the voice that whispered mockingly into my ear. I turned around with a noise of exasperation to find myself face-to-face with the Count, who had materialized not a foot's breadth behind me, smirking.

He was still clad in one of the dark suits we had procured for him. Having him wandering around in prison rags had caused some… consternation with the staff. The white silk gloves served the similar purpose of concealing the brands upon his palms, though for some perverse reason he had elected to scribe a reproduction of the Seal on their backs. The overcoat, however, was new. I was almost afraid to wonder where he'd acquired it. Blood red and of a more ostentatious cut than I would have allowed myself to be caught dead in, I had to admit that in his own reprobate way it fit him well. Unfortunately the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was suspended upside down from the bough of a tree, and the garment was brushing the gravel at my feet.

"Even old men," I replied calmly, "need hardly worry about brigands when their faithful guard dogs patrol the perimeter so diligently."

This garnered a sneer; and he floated downward to land on his feet with an unnatural acrobatic twist, as if he were moving through water rather than air. "I notice you sent the driver scurrying away with haste this time."

"Naturally," I turned and resumed my walk, "I could hardly want a repetition of last time, could I?"

"You only said I couldn't harm him. I wasn't going to harm him. I just wanted a taste. I'm not some animal to feed contentedly on livestock as you do."

"You know that I provide you with human blood when such is possible. Otherwise you'll just have to make do."

"You could allow me to hunt," he drew beside me in a single stride, bending so that his leering visage bobbed in my peripheral vision. "Just a little one. A cripple, a prostitute – no one would even notice. A guard dog is safer to handle when he's well-fed," he added, with an exasperated snarl of self-loathing.

I almost felt sorry for him, begging for such poor fare. "You may have an opportunity for some excitement soon, Count," I made a token attempt at placation, as I reached inside my vest for the folded telegram I'd placed there earlier.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his brows lift in interest; but he quickly hid this and turned his face away, looking into the overhanging shadows of the trees. "I do wish you wouldn't call me that," he announced, unexpectedly.

I paused, hand half-out of my inner pocket with the note. "Oh?"

He glanced back at me, peevishly. "That title has no meaning here, or in our current… situation, as you well know."

I hummed absently to myself as I unfolded the telegram. "A reasonable request, I suppose – but I can't very well call you Dracula after the stir that bloody book generated, can I?"

A faint smile graced his lips, and amusement tinged his deep voice. "No, I suppose not. Your reputation is poor enough."

"Thank you for noticing. Vlad, then?" I queried.

He continued to smile vaguely. "I have not been Vlad for four centuries. I think, however, that Alucard would do nicely."

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow at him; though mine was dubious. "Clever," I commented dryly.

"Oh come, Professor, you must allow me at least this little amusement."

Despite myself, and the company I was keeping, I found myself laughing softly. "Very well. Alucard – have a look at this." I lifted the telegram in my right hand.

He took it, bemusedly, in gloved fingers and read it quickly before throwing a sharp sideways glance at me. His expression had become suddenly cunning; predatory. And then it was gone, disguised behind that carefully contrived mask of bland boredom he had worn so often throughout his imprisonment. "Interesting," was his only comment, as he handed it back.

We had reached the courtyard of the manor. "Where is Gabriel?" I asked, replacing the paper in my pocket as I crossed the cobbled space and mounted the front steps.

The vampire put on a disdainful expression at such a menial task; but after a moment's idle concentration, he replied grudgingly, "In the upstairs study."

"Thank you." He seemed slightly surprised, or perhaps just sardonically amused, by the sentiment. "I expect I shall retire early tonight; but we will speak more of this," I tapped my pocket, "tomorrow. Good night… Alucard."

He smiled darkly. "Good night… Master."

I let myself into the house and climbed the stairs, leaving my bag on the steps as I turned off at the second floor landing and strolled down the hall to the study. I knocked softly on the open door before stepping inside; nonetheless startling my son out of an intent study of some maps on the desk as my shadow fell into his light.

"Father!" he blurted, knocking a pencil and a few tacks to the floor as he jumped up from his seat and hurried around the desk to greet me. "I'd asked Alucard to keep an eye out for you; but I guess," he added with a roll of his eyes, "I should have been more specific that I actually wanted him to inform me when you arrived."

I felt my face assume a puzzled expression as I released my son's arms from my grip. How had he known of the name we'd only minutes before decided?

He evidently misread my confusion. "Oh, Alucard – the Count, that is. He came up with that one not long after you left. You know, spell it backwards… clever of him, eh?" he chuckled, as one will sometimes do for a small child who has made some prodigal discovery.

That sly devil. I supposed, as I closed my eyes and shook my head bemusedly, that he had to take what small victories he could. Asking my permission, indeed. "Yes… quite," I agreed. "But I'm more interested in where he got that awful coat."

"You like it, do you?" The young man grinned at me and began picking up the spilled tacks. "Wait till you see the hat."

"Gabriel—"

He held up a hand, chuckling. "Relax, Father. He hasn't been preying on the locals and taking their clothes. All is still well in England. I got it for him in town the other day."

I grimaced in exasperation. "He is not your playmate, Gabriel."

A bit piqued now, my son looked up at me as he scooped up the last tack. "I'm aware of that, Father. But it's going to look rather odd of him with the cold months coming on if he's seen out and about without proper outer clothing, isn't it? He took a liking to that ridiculous thing, so I bought it."

I relented, sighing, and took a seat on the sofa against the wall. "Yes, yes, you're right – I'm just tired from the journey, that's all." I rubbed a hand over my face. "…Wait a minute. You took him to town with you?"

Gabriel smiled wryly. "I couldn't exactly leave him behind, could I? You gave him pretty specific orders to guard me, you know. He wouldn't let me go alone. And besides, he behaved himself perfectly well."

I held up my hands, "Very well, I concede defeat," then slapped my palms down upon my thighs. "What is that you're working on?"

"Ah – livestock mutilations. Captain Hobbes thought it might be another ghoul, after that nastiness last year, but it looks more like a case of wild dogs this time." He shrugged. "How was your trip?"

"Refreshing, for the most part. It was good to see Paris again. No rest for the wicked, however," I added wryly, withdrawing the telegram once more. "I received this just after we came into port."

"What is it?"

I held it up, explaining as he came forth to take it, "A summons from the prison authority. It seems something has been… preying on the inmates at Eastwick Penitentiary. The warden has requested my input on the matter. I am thinking," I looked at him seriously over the rims of my spectacles, "that this may be a good opportunity to field test our new… arrangements."

Gabriel glanced out the window, at the moon riding high over shadowed London in the distance, then back to me. "Do you think he'll cooperate?"

"We'll find out soon enough."


	6. Chapter 6

"Doctor Van Helsing, I presume?"

The Eastwick warden was of the appointed administrative sort: an older fellow, roughly my age I guessed, clean-shaven to his graying temples and possessed of a sallow face and lean physique. He met my grip firmly and introduced himself as Carter.

"And, ah—" his gaze traveled up to the figure looming over my shoulder.

"My… associate, Alucard," I supplied. I sincerely wished to avoid any lengthy explanations. My companion certainly offered none. He stood silently, hands thrust into the pockets of that ridiculous great-coat, face shadowed under the brim of that even more ridiculous hat.

"Well, two heads are better than one, eh?" Carter waved for us to follow as he set off along the brightly lit corridor of the prison office wing. "I do hope you'll be able to shed some light on this for us, Doctor. Our house doctor's at the end of his bloody rope. At first we thought it was the usual infighting—we do our best to police the inmates, of course, but every now and then one of em'll fashion a shiv from a cot leg or somesuch, and then we've got a problem…"

_There is another vampire here. I can smell his reek. _Alucard's cool observation took the momentary forefront to the warden's uneasy chatter.

Well, that answered that question. _You're prepared to do as we discussed?_ I kept my eyes straight ahead on Carter as I sent the query back. I could not hear the Count's footsteps on the hardwood floor, but I knew that he was on my heels. The constant undercurrent of his presence at the back of my mind quickened suddenly with a sense of hungered anticipation.

_Such gutter trash is hardly worthy to walk the night. I'm going to enjoy this._

"—so we've been in lockdown since early last evening, but, well, as you can see." Carter's anxious explanation trailed to an abrupt halt as he pushed open a door and led us through into the prison infirmary.

"Doctor Van Helsing, this is Doctor Bartlett, our house physician; and our chaplain, Father Murphy." I registered the names for future reference but my eyes were not for the two men being introduced to me. They immediately fixed upon the central fixture in the room and remained there in grim horror.

Upon a cot in the center of the infirmary lay a pale figure wrapped in thin cotton sheets nearly to his chin. His eyes stared upward blankly; bedraggled blonde hair spread out in a halo around his head. I could see clearly the laboured rise and fall of his chest and hear his rasping breath.

"He was attacked last night?" I asked tersely after some moments, finally looking at the thin, watery-eyed man who had been introduced as Bartlett.

"Yes. In the middle of lockdown no less – we have no idea how the attacker got to him. He was still behind locked bars when the patrolling guard found him." The explanation came with clinical precision; but the man did not meet my eyes, staring instead with a look of intense trepidation over my shoulder.

"Alucard, wait for us in the hallway," I snipped briefly. There was no reply, but I heard the rustling swish of his heavy coat as he bowed and stepped backward out of the room.

"Odd bloke, isn't he?" Carter commented as the door shut silently.

"Yes, but he has his… uses," I gave my careful response as I removed my jacket and unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt sleeves to roll them back. "With your permission, Doctor," I gestured to the wounded man.

"By all means, Doctor Van Helsing," Bartlett replied quickly, recovering his composure in the absence of my menacing counterpart. He drew back the thin covering, exposing a bloodstained bandage about the patient's neck, and shook his head. "I just changed this. Not half an hour ago. He hasn't got much longer, I'm afraid."

I had already guessed this, by the presence of the priest. I nodded absently, my fingers already working to undo the wrapping. The wound beneath was no less than I had expected: flesh torn raggedly by the work of haphazard fangs, still oozing forth in a half-congealed stream. There was none of the subtlety I recalled from the precise attacks of the Count a decade past. This was the result of a vicious, brutal assault. A relatively young vampire, I surmised.

_I could have told you that. You're wasting your time._

_Patience_, I commanded with a frown. "You were right to call me, gentlemen," I spoke aloud. "Even if this were a fully-equipped hospital I do not think that such a wound could be cured by mundane medical means." I placed a hand upon the victim's forehead; the staring eyes rolled blankly up at me, unseeing. "I shall require a wooden stake."

"I beg your pardon?"

I turned a sharp look upon the warden at his incredulous query. "A stake, man: a wooden stake! Your prisoners fashion weapons from bed-legs: surely you can find the means to do the same."

"Yes, but what for?"

"He has not much longer to live. He has been attacked by a creature of the night; and when he dies, his body will become a minion of the Thing that killed him; unless I am permitted to seal it now." I tilted my head, peering at him over the rims of my glasses. "Fire would also suffice, but I presume you'd rather I not start a blaze in your infirmary."

"Right. Yes. Of course…" rubbing the back of his head, Carter stepped outside. I saw him startle sideways just beyond the doorway and then resume his stride as the door swung shut behind him. No doubt Alucard was being his usual charming self. I felt a faint psychic chuckle in response to the thought and irritably reinforced the mental barriers that kept the vampire out.

"You really mean to drive a stake through his heart?" Bartlett asked in horror as he reached past me to replace the bandages and pull the sheet back up. "I thought that was all made-up fancy for that book."

"In most things, however fanciful, there is a grain of truth, Doctor," I replied. "I take no joy in such grim work; but it must be done."

"This is barbaric," spoke a third voice; and I turned to look upon the priest, who had stood silent until now. "Convict or not, this man has been brutally attacked, and you stand there, speaking calmly of the desecration of his remains while he still breathes? In God's name, Van Helsing, what sort of man are you?"

"A man of God, I hope," I replied, sincerely respectful as I made the sign of the cross. "What this man has done in life is of no importance to us now. I seek only to spare his soul from oblivion."

"Aye, well you have an odd way of showing it." Father Murphy eyed me disapprovingly as he moved to the victim's opposite side. I bowed my head slightly and stepped back as he began to administer the last rites. The harsh sound of the prisoner's breath had taken on a desperate, rattling quality.

Carter returned, banging against the doorframe in his haste to pass the looming shadow in the hall. "Will this do, Doctor? I found a hammer in the storage room as well—" he fell swiftly quiet when he saw the priest at work. "Bloody hell," he murmured as I relieved him of the broken chair leg and work mallet. "Right circus we're making of this, isn't it?"

I declined to reply, watching solemnly as the priest completed his duty. We stood for some moments in awkward silence, the only sound in the room the rasping breath of the dying man; and then that, too, finally faded. I moved to the cot.

"I must register my disapproval of this… act," Murphy declared with a distressed frown. "This is blasphemy, Doctor. I want no part of it."

"I ask none to share in this with me. If it is blasphemy, then the stain shall rest upon my soul alone." I placed the makeshift stake over the dead man's heart and tested the weight of the hammer in my right hand. My face assumed a deadened mask.

_"Benedicat te omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Fílius, et Spíritus Sanctus. Amen."_

I drove the hammer downward. An unholy shriek spilled forth from the gaping mouth of the corpse and the limbs jerked spasmodically, clawing at my arms as the point of the wooden spike pierced the ribcage. The eyes glared for a single, eternal moment: not the cunning crimson I had seen so often in the Count's smouldering gaze, but the dull, ashen ember of a mindless ghoul; and then they were extinguished forever.

I jerked back from the body, passing a hand over my forehead and drawing a calming breath. Carter stood as if stricken, his mouth agape and eyes staring at the monstrosity sprawled across the bed. Bartlett was retching into the wash basin in the corner. I crossed myself again, fervently, as the body began to crumble and fall into dust, and sought Murphy's eyes; but the chaplain had shut them tightly and was whispering under his breath in a swift torrent of Latin.

I gave them a few moments to recover; but not overlong. The night's true task still lay ahead. "The other bodies," I uttered flatly into the dense, hanging air. "What did you do with them?"

"In the morgue…" Carter replied distantly after a pause. "Oh God, are they all going to be like that?"

"It's entirely possible," I replied in clipped tones. "An indiscriminately feeding vampire leaves such refuse in his wake. Where is the morgue, and with how many must we expect to deal?"

The warden swallowed hard and tried to regain his composure, squaring his shoulders and facing me directly. "In the sub-level. Opposite the maximum security wing. We've had some dozen deaths, but I don't know if they were all…" he gestured vainly at the small pile of ash that had so recently been an inmate, "like that…."

_Alucard._

_It's about time._

I nodded shortly to Carter. "Show me to this sub-level."

We left the physician, Bartlett, recovering his wits over the sink; but Father Murphy steeled himself and slipped through the doorway on my heels as Carter led the way down the hallway. Alucard detached himself from the wall and kept pace silently in our wake.

"Dear God…" Murphy alternated between staring desperately at me and casting fearful glances backward at the red-cloaked mass of shadow that seemed to envelope the whole corridor behind. "Was that really a vampire?"

"It was a—"

"—ghoul," Alucard interrupted darkly. "The mindless undead slave of a vampire who feeds indiscriminately on the impure." He grinned slightly, showing a flash of teeth under the shadowed brim of his hat. "The lowest form of minion. But then, filth seem to enjoy surrounding themselves with filth."

The priest raked fingers through his tousled, sandy hair, trying to process all of this at once. "And who're you, then?"

Before Alucard could traumatize the poor man further, I interjected. "He is an agent in my employ. He has dealt with these things before."

_In your employ; that's clever. When do I receive my salary?_

In that moment's distraction I nearly tripped over Carter's heels, as the warden stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. An alarm bell suddenly sounded stridently throughout the building. The doorway at the end of the hall burst open and two guards threw themselves through the opening, shouting frantically.

"Sir, it's a riot! They've taken over the sentry station and the entire floor!"

"How?" Carter demanded, stiffening angrily.

"I don't know, sir," the guard on the right pled fearfully. "They must have tunneled, or something – they came at us from the lower hallway – I have no idea how. Simmons put six bullets in one of them, but he just… kept coming…."

"It happened all so quick, sir – the whole block has gone insane." The second man wobbled; blood trickled in a thin stream from his left temple. "We barely got out. Simmons and Blake– they—" he choked on the words, lurching against the wall and clutching at his eyes with one hand as if trying to claw the image out of them.

_The lower hallway. The morgue. He has awakened his ghouls._

I felt the quickening of anticipation in the mental voice and turned sharply. He stood, perfectly still in the center of the corridor, but exuding a palpable tension as that of a vicious animal straining at its chain. A gleeful grin split his face; his eyes burned with a predatory light. I felt my own pulse quicken in response and forced several deep breaths. This was, after all, why I had brought him with me.

"Alucard," I uttered, removing my spectacles and tugging a handkerchief from my pocket to clean them in a show of calm that I did not feel. All eyes were on me: his most intently. "Eliminate the target."

A sound very like a fulfilled sigh passed his lips as he brushed past us like a ghost, the heavy snapping sound of his coat the only thing that seemed to anchor him to our reality. As his gloved hand touched the handle of the door at the end of the hall, I added firmly, "Save all you can."

Gravity paused along with him for a single moment, his form seeming to hang suspended, as a painting capturing the act of motion. His unnerving smile flashed once more, briefly, as he glanced back to acknowledge me. "Understood."

And then he was gone. The door swung softly shut on empty space.

"Alone!" Carter's shrill disbelief broke the spell. "Have you ever seen a prison riot, Van Helsing? Does he even have a weapon? This is madness!"

The thudding sound of running feet was converging on our position in response to the alarm. "It is not madness, Warden!" I lifted my voice above the ringing of the bell and the rising noise of confused humanity. "You there—" I stabbed a finger at the first guard, "get him," indicating the second, "to the infirmary. The rest of you," and here I raised both hands above my head for attention; mercifully aided by the sudden cessation of the ringing bell. Almost, I mused, as if an annoyed vampire had ripped it from the wall.

There was no dry rejoinder to the thought this time. I could feel Alucard at the other end of his leash, but only as an indefinite sense of cathartic glee as he waded into the enemy. "Please, everyone," I repeated, sweeping my eyes over the new arrivals as the remainder of the on-duty guards skidded to a halt in the hallway with us. "The situation will be under control shortly." I hoped.

"Bollocks, Doctor!" Carter snapped. "I don't care how good your bloody agent is with those—those monsters; we've a riot on our hands and I have men down there in the middle of it! You lot: get down there and establish control. Mind the fellow in the red coat and hat; he's on our side. If he's still alive," he added under his breath as the guards filed past us.

Murphy was looking at me very hard. I didn't have time for this. _You're about to have company_, I thought ahead.

_And?_ Amusement was foremost in Alucard's thought. Unknowing of what to expect, and somewhat fearful now, I hurried after the troop, ignoring Carter's shouted insistence that I stop. I heard Murphy huffing at my shoulder as the priest stayed at my heels; then some moments later, the warden's reluctant footfalls as well.

I pushed through the doorway and hurried down the stairs immediately beyond. At the landing there was a double barrier: a door of thick oak, and a grating of iron bars. Both were open. In the flickering gaslight past the threshold I could see one of the guards, his gun held stiffly in both hands, his gaze transfixed in horror at some sight beyond. I heard a smattering of gunshots, followed by muffled screams, and then all was overridden by a booming wave of basso laughter.

I pressed onward, pausing for a moment beside the solitary guard; I had to pause, for even fortified by the memory of horrors already faced, my mind recoiled at the sight now before me.

It wasn't the bodies. Bodies I was accustomed to—even scattered in dismembered parts as they were. Some were nearly intact except for the heads, which appeared to have been forcibly crushed; the frames to which they had been attached lay now crumbling sluggishly into dust.

Nor was it the blood, which painted the walls in irregular splashes and slickened the floor to a dark, sickly sheen. I was even more accustomed to the sight of blood.

But what lay at the end of the hallway baffled my senses to a standstill as they tried to interpret what I was seeing: a mass of twisted shadow, insubstantial yet solid; real yet contorted in such a way that no living thing could have cast it. Alucard.

I could recognize… parts of him. A glimpse of a hand here; an elbow there – though not in any place proportionate to the hand. A hint of his sharp profile flickered briefly across the wall as the form continued to twist and writhe, an incoherent cacophony of hair and teeth and burning eyes. Above it all erupted the leering demonic face of a creature born from the imagination of Hell: a wolfish parody of gaping jaws and far too many eyes; and from its teeth dangled the broken form of the lesser vampire. The great menace of Eastwick Penitentiary seemed rather an inconsequential afterthought now.

"ALUCARD!" My voice was drowned in the sea of shouts and screams and frantic gunshots; but I felt the Seal between us vibrate like a live thing in response. I felt his rebellion; his defiant ferocity at this small taste of freedom after a decade in chains. But even as the hellhound turned three sets of its eyes toward me and let forth a vicious, rippling snarl; even as I heard the bones of its monstrous victim splinter and crack under the crushing force of those shapeless jaws… I felt him also recede slightly. A lucky bullet caught the devil dog in what passed for a cheek, ripping a tendril of shadow away with its passage.

As if a hole had been punched in a balloon, the shadowed monstrosity began to collapse on itself. Two more gaping, impossible mouths stretched wide in the shapeless mass, bellowing forth mocking laughter from nonexistent throats: for there was nothing behind them; no yawning gullet; just an endless array of laughing eyes. The hellhound's head whipped angrily, snapping the prey in its jaws like a boneless rag, and then snatching it up and swallowing it whole.

I found myself trembling with the effort to rein the monster in. He thrashed and fought against the binding even as it tightened around him. "Compose yourself…" I growled through clenched teeth, mustering a force of will to match his. "Your Master commands it!"

The Seal snapped into place. A sudden vortex seemed to draw the shadows into themselves; and then Alucard stood alone in the epicenter of the carnage, utterly serene except for a slight unearthly flapping of his coat in a nonexistent breeze. The guards drew back, uncertainly. Insufferable in his self-satisfaction, the vampire strode forward, idly crushing the skull of an already-dead ghoul under a boot heel. The stunned silence parted only for the sound of his calm footfalls; and finally he stood before me. Utterly unrepentant, he bowed his head and smiled.

"The target has been eliminated."

I had several choice things I wanted to say to him, but present company made this awkward. He seemed to have no trouble reading my thoughts in any case, and his smile broadened to a vulgar grin.

It was the priest who finally spoke, seething with righteous fury as he brandished a stout wooden cross before him. "Wha' in God's name ARE you! Monster!"

"Yes," Alucard agreed, reaching forward suddenly to pluck the cross from the Murphy's startled grasp. He tossed it lightly over in one gloved hand, testing its heft. "A monster, to kill another monster. Ingenious, isn't it?" He smiled in a disturbingly congenial fashion and stuck the end of the cross in his mouth, bracing it against one fang and chewing on it like an oversized cigar. The effect was amplified by a slight wisp of smoke that trailed from his lips at the contact.

The chaplain crossed himself and scurried backward nervously. "This is an outrage, Van Helsing!"

Given the circumstances, I had to agree. "You were ordered to spare all you could," I observed coldly.

The vampire glanced casually over his shoulder. "But I did," he remonstrated mildly, shifting the cross from one side of his mouth to the other. "Of course, your interfering guards shot a fair number of fleeing prisoners. Such a shame they got in the way; I had things well in hand."

"Clearly," I growled. He turned his eyes back to me, and in them was the monster: bound but fiercely unapologetic. I held his gaze for some moments and then keeping my voice level with effort, uttered, "Return to the manor. You will interact with no one until I return."

He bowed deeply and dispersed in a swirl of smoke. The cross clattered to the floor. I turned stiffly and walked past the stunned, silent faces back to the stairwell and upward. That which had preyed on the prison denizens was dead; but I felt that defeat had never weighed so heavily on my soul.


	7. Chapter 7

The ride home gave me plenty of time to think: primarily of what a great fool I'd been. There I'd languished on my laurels, chuckling at the Count's amusing attempts at defiance and all the while not even realizing that he was doing just what I thought he could not: convincing me, even on the subconscious level, that he was no longer a threat. My very caution was my downfall; for I had been so secure in the infallibility of my careful plans that I had been seduced into somnolesence – and the moment I had given him an inch of free rein he had shown me overwhelmingly just how little control I truly had.

I could not blame him. He, at least, had never really pretended to be anything other than what he was: a monster. The fault was mine for forgetting that. The blame for the carnage at Eastwick rested squarely upon my shoulders.

I spent most of the return trip to Carfax in reflective prayer. I barely noticed that the cabbie overcharged me for dropping me at the doorstep; I merely paid him and sent him galloping away with all haste. It was with the automatic motions of a bone-weary man that I climbed the steps and let myself inside.

Gabriel was waiting for me. He fairly pounced on me in concern as I crossed the threshold, guiding me with firm hands to the parlour and into my favorite seat by the fire. He poured a shot of brandy and pressed it into my hands, admonishing that I drink it for I looked like death warmed over. Only after the alcohol had obediently burned a path down my throat did he sit down across from me and address me directly.

"I felt Alucard return but he wouldn't answer my summons. I think he's sulking in the dungeons somewhere. What happened?"

I gazed at the empty glass in my hand, idly wishing that some liquid still remained at the bottom. But alcohol was not the answer. I set the glass down on the coffee table and occupied my fingers otherwise, intertwining them on my lap. In a subdued voice, I told him.

He stared at me in horror. "All of those people…" he murmured, as I finished.

"They got in the way."

The Count's voice was not, to be sure, topmost on the list of things I wanted to hear at that moment; but a discussion would have to be had eventually, and waiting would not make it any easier. I turned my eyes upward to the rafters, from whence the comment had issued. "Alucard."

"Master," he returned the greeting, his tone twisting it into more of a pet name than a title of respect. He smiled down at me, floating prostrate with his back a few inches from the ceiling, his hands thrust into his pockets as though this were the most casual pose in the world. "You did say 'until you returned'; so I presume I'm allowed to… interact again?"

"Get down from there," Gabriel hissed, stabbing a finger at the floor before the hearth. With a laconic shrug, the vampire descended lazily until he stood on the rug, then idly removed one hand from his pocket to examine his fingernails. Which was quite the feat as he was still wearing gloves.

I watched at him dully. All of the angry epithets I had earlier sought to fling at him were gone, replaced by the simple, hollow realization of my own failure. I had nothing left to say to him. Gabriel deferred to me, looking back and forth between us but staying his opinion. The silence stretched so long that Alucard finally stopped his show of grooming and looked at me directly.

"Well?" he asked. "Let's have it. Surely you're going to tell me what a bad dog I've been." He waited a moment, smugly, for a retort, but when I did not give him one his expression twitched in puzzlement; then annoyance. "Fine, then, I'll find something more interesting to do." He took a long step backward, phasing himself through the wall adjacent to the fireplace. It was then that I spoke:

"Stay."

He paused, the upper half of his body protruding from the wall like a rather macabre hunting trophy; then stepped back into the room, head tilted as he eyed me curiously.

"What happened tonight was my fault." In saying it aloud, the statement seemed to crystallize itself in reality. I clenched my laced fingers together and continued in a calm voice. "You warned me yourself, in fact, last night: you said that a dog is safer when well-fed. And instead I held you for ten years and then set you loose in… well, to pardon the phrase, the butcher's shop." Alucard seemed to approve of that analogy, half a grin spreading across the left side of his face. Gabriel did not find it so amusing, as his vaguely sick expression made plain.

I cleared my throat and continued softly, "I cannot blame the monster for being true to what it is. What, then, do you suggest I do with it?"

There was a moment of silence. My son and the vampire exchanged glances, each unsure as to whom the question had been directed. It was Gabriel who spoke first, thoughtfully. "Not all dogs are kept on the same length rope." I lifted an eyebrow, inviting him to continue. "Well – if you want the dog to stay in his kennel, you put him on the short chain."

Alucard pantomimed a noose about his neck, flopping his head to one side and letting his tongue loll grotesquely. I ignored him. Gabriel was spared sight of the charade taking place over his shoulder and went on, sorting his thoughts as he spoke. "But if you want him to guard the front lot, you don't just unsnap his leash. You put him on a longer chain – so he can patrol his territory without running off to kill all of the neighborhood cats too."

A faint sound of amusement emerged from Alucard's throat. He stepped forward, through the back of the sofa, and then threw himself down upon it beside Gabriel, slouching low and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. As his boots were clean I elected not to make an issue of it. He steepled two fingers before pursed lips and gave the matter great thought for some two seconds before offering his opinion.

"I think that's a good idea."

My mouth was half-open to argue with him when his words registered fully. I blinked, surprised. "You do?"

He grinned at my double take, showing his fangs over his interlaced fingers. "I do. Obviously the dog doesn't want to be locked in his kennel all the time; and as only a great fool would let him off his leash entirely… again…"

He paused, deliberately baiting me. I refused to bite; merely letting out an annoyed exhalation through my nose to indicate that he get on with it.

The vampire chuckled softly. "Well then, it would be in the dog's best interest to have some longer chains to run on, wouldn't it? It shouldn't even be difficult. We've already established the short chain and the… ahem, local cat massacre: we just need to define some grades in between."

"We?" I queried, bemused.

"Of course, Professor. I intend to help. If the dog is being fitted for a leash, it's also in his best interest to see that it fits comfortably, isn't it?"

He made a good point, but I was quite certain he had some ulterior motive. He read my concern on my face before I could voice it, though, and favored me with another unnerving grin.

"I find myself in a unique position, don't I?" He rose bonelessly from his slouched position, as if lifted by a marionette's string, and sat perfectly straight on the edge of the cushion. He extended his left hand, palm outward, before him, examining the effigy of the Seal scribed on the back of the glove; then the crimson eyes lifted to meet mine. "I doubt it was your intention at the time, Professor, but as you're no doubt well aware, this spell of yours, even as it bound me, also gave me access to more power than I ever could have gained on my own." He gave that a moment's consideration. "Well, at least not for several more centuries." A smile. "I never thanked you properly for that."

"I think that is better passed unacknowledged," I replied coolly.

He inclined his head in a parody of graciousness. "With the strength of your blood augmenting my own, I could make this world my playground. But I don't think I will. Do you know why?"

"Because you're locked in your kennel?" Gabriel ventured, dryly.

Alucard sneered. "Aside from that."

"Because," I interjected my own reasoning, thoughtfully, "there would be no challenge."

The sneer turned back to a satisfied smile. "Precisely. Boredom is the true bane of immortality, in the end. So the dog is also best served by keeping things interesting, isn't he?"

"I could," Gabriel deadpanned, "go outside and throw a stick for you."

"I could tear your throat out," Alucard countered pleasantly. It was an empty threat and Gabriel knew it. He didn't even bat an eyelash.

I cleared my throat loudly before the situation could escalate. "Then I see no reason not to start immediately."

Just then, quite unexpectedly, the front bell rang.

"Who on earth comes calling at this hour?" I demanded irritably, trying to hide the startle the sudden noise had given me.

"I'll see who it is, Father." Gabriel was already halfway across the room. "Like as not it's some vagrant children daring each other to knock the loudest…"

I rubbed a hand over my eyes, tempted to let him handle it. I was certainly in no mood to greet callers at this time of the night. But then, I reasoned, anyone who'd come all the way out to haunted Carfax at nearly midnight must surely have a good reason for it. I sighed, pushed myself out of my chair and went to see what the trouble was.

I stepped into the foyer and saw Gabriel already engaged in conversation with a pale, wiry man whom I recognized as Franklin Hobbes, of the local police. Briefly, the notion fluttered that he might have come to arrest me for the travesty at Eastwick; but no… the few surviving guards had testified adamantly that it was some demon they had fought – not any companion of mine. Only Murphy had guessed Alucard's true nature; and priest or no, his witness was outnumbered.

"Men see only what they can comprehend," Alucard's deep baritone whispered near my ear. I had not even heard him rise and follow me.

"Well in that case, you should be nigh invisible, yah?" I twisted a glance over my shoulder at him, and jumped when I saw only his eyes and smirking grin, suspended in empty air. The grin spread into a barely-audible laugh at my reaction; then he faded completely at a snappish wave of my hand. I harrumphed softly and turned back to my son and our guest, covering my moment of discomfiture by striding forward and greeting briskly: "Captain. What brings you out so far in the middle of the night?"

"Ah yes, Doctor Van Helsing, I do apologize for the hour." Hobbes dipped his head deferentially. "But as I was just explaining to Master Gabriel – well, I didn't think I should wait."

"What's this about, then?" If I sounded snippy, I was sure God would forgive me. He knew well enough what I'd already been through tonight.

"You remember, Father, that trouble I mentioned with the livestock attacks while you were away?"

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Yes. Yes – of course I remember. You said it was wild dogs?"

"Well," Hobbes explained grimly, "it seems our dogs have moved on to tougher game. We had a mauling tonight: a young couple on their way home from the country. Something like a big wolf, according to the report, attacked them on the outskirts of town. The horse spooked; broke his tracings; they found him more than a mile up the road. And then evidently this thing attacked the carriage." He paused for a moment, rubbing his chin as he collected his thoughts. "I've been to the scene, though, and it had to be more than one. I got a good look at the prints in the mud: at least three distinct sizes that I could see. And the bite patterns were the same as on those sheep up at Harwick's place. I think it's our mystery pack."

"All right," I frowned, "but what exactly does this have to do with us?"

"Two things," the captain replied, ticking off points on his fingers. "First off: although the husband's body was… well, pretty brutally worked over, if you'll pardon my skipping of the details – the lady was completely untouched. Not a scratch on her. Not that we were able to get much information out of her anyway. Shock, you know. It was the same with the livestock. Every animal killed was absolutely ripped to shreds but the others were left utterly alone. We'd thought at first it was some sort of instinctive behaviour. Wolves generally only kill what they need to survive."

"And the second item?"

Hobbes glanced at Gabriel, who supplied the answer. "This," he said, holding up a small metal disc and walking over to place it in my hand.

"What's this, some sort of foreign coin?" I tilted my head and adjusted my glasses to squint at the object.

"That's what you'd think at first, isn't it?" Hobbes agreed. "But look at the markings. There's no government in the world as stamps coins like that. We found it," he added, "mashed into the mud under the dead man's body."

I was forced to agree; the peculiar engravings on each side of the disc were unlike any I had seen on any coin. They seemed almost… arcane. And so the reason for the police captain's visit became clear. "You hoped I might provide some insight," I concluded.

He nodded. "You're my go-to man for… oddities. I took the liberty of going back out to Harwick's myself, after we'd cleaned up the mess on the road. Had to root about in the mud for a good spell; but I found another coin just like it. Wedged up under a tree root. Bloody odd coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes…" I murmured thoughtfully, rolling the disc between my fingers. "I'm sorry, Captain; I don't have any answers for you tonight. But I can certainly look into it. May I keep this?"

"Go right ahead. If you should find anything out, you can call for me at my home; no offense, Doctor, but if the boys down the station knew I was working with you, well…."

"I understand." Hobbes had already taken one beating to his reputation for asking my advice in the past. "Ours may not be a popular profession, but that makes it no less necessary, eh?"

"Aye," he agreed dourly, replacing his hat on his head. Gabriel quickly attended to the door. "I'd best be home before the wife puts out a bulletin on me. You'll let me know as soon as you discover anything…."

"I shall. Good night, Captain."

I stood in silent place for some moments after the door had shut behind him, fingering the coin in my hand as I sorted out my thoughts. Gabriel waited, watching me patiently; then fell into step beside me as I finally turned and headed for the basement. I sent out a tired mental summons for Alucard. The hours were growing small; but it seemed my night's work was just beginning.


	8. Chapter 8

Something woke me from uneasy dreams. I lay still for some moments as my eyes adjusted to the dim shadows that shrouded the room. From the particular greyness of the light, I could guess that it was already late evening, and I wondered why I'd been left to sleep so long.

Ah well, I supposed as I stretched and sat up in bed: such luxury was uncommon, but best enjoyed when permitted. And last night had been quite a long one. Still, no need to press my fortune now that I was awake. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and hurried to the armoire in the corner, quickly donning a simple black suit and white shirt and checking the fit by touch. Mirrors were a nonentity at Carfax.

I ran a brush through my hair, and then, satisfied that I was presentable, hurried from my room and through the back hallways toward the kitchen. Perhaps I had not yet been summoned; but I knew from the previous night's preparations that Master was expecting guests tonight, and I did not wish to be caught unready when he did call. He could be… frightening, when annoyed.

I nodded a general greeting as I entered the kitchen; but the other staff were occupied for the most part in preparing the roast for the evening meal. My duty was otherwise: knowing that I would be called upon to serve Master himself, I briskly set about assembling his tray. Not that he ate; but when he was entertaining guests he liked to keep up appearances.

I went to the cold room and selected a bottle from the shelves, checking the date on the label to be sure it was fresh. Blood might pass for wine to the casual eye, but it certainly didn't age as gracefully. I set out a wine glass to go with the bottle, and added some bread and a wedge of cheese for show. My timing was excellent; for just as I finished the tray I heard the Count's familiar summons in the back of my mind.

I made haste to the dining room with my burden, and found him seated alone in his high-backed chair at the end of the table. He was turned away from me, looking out over the estate, but he sensed my quiet arrival as easily as if I'd rung the bell. "Our guests have not yet arrived, Servant," he observed without looking from the window. His deep voice seemed to fill the room, pressing against the inside of my skull like a physical presence, though he had spoken but softly. "Come. I wish to speak with you."

I set the tray on the table and approached him cautiously with lowered eyes, until my gaze fell on his hand upon the armrest of his chair. I knew better than to speak first, so I waited, the silence stretching until all I could hear was the beating of my own heart.

"How long has it been," he asked then, and I heard the faint rustle of silk as he turned to look at me, "that you have served me?"

"About… ten years, Master." The title still left a foul taste in my mouth; but I knew better than to address him otherwise. I had had, after all, a decade in which to learn. We had been such fools, then, to think we could thwart him. I remembered as clearly as yesterday his mocking laughter as he'd risen from the coffin, tugging the knife out of his chest and tossing it aside with utter disregard in the snow. How he had proceeded to tear apart our pathetic band with hands and teeth alone… but for some reason, he had let me live. I, alone, had been brought back to London with him, as a trophy of his victory.

"Ten years," he mused, his voice turning away again as he looked back to the window. "Nothing to we immortals; but rather longer, I imagine, for you."

"I suppose so, Master." My reply was automatic, but my thoughts momentarily lingered elsewhere, on that distant night in Transylvania. He had bested… how many? Myself, and four good men, without batting an eye. I shivered slightly.

"You have been a good servant, Professor," he was proceeding, in an almost companionable tone. "Apart from a few… minor incidents, early on, of course. I must say I find it quite convenient to have you around."

I frowned slightly and kept my eyes downcast. Such praise was bitter, but rare. I supposed I should be grateful. "Thank you, Master."

I felt him smile, though I could not see his face. I could hear it in his voice. "I should like," he announced slowly, "to offer you a gift, in exchange for your years of loyalty." At this I could not resist a quick glance up at him, looking quickly away again when I inadvertently met his eyes; but they were amused, not angry. "Look at me Servant," he commanded, softly.

I looked. Those impossibly knowing eyes captured mine and held me fast. I heard his voice dimly, as through a great fog. "So few humans," he was murmuring, "…so few, with such minds and fortitude as yours. So few worthy of such a gift. Tell me, Professor, would you like to live forever?"

I tried to look away; tried to gather my thoughts; but his eyes would not let me go. "You wish… an eternal servant?" I managed to gasp out one of the many questions that leapt to my mind.

He chuckled. "No… in fact, in accepting this gift you would be freed of me." He evidently heard the quickening of my pulse at those words, for his laughter grew sardonically louder.

"Why?" he responded to the question I was unable to voice. "Why… so many reasons. Because eternity is a very long time. Because I so rarely meet another with whom I truly enjoy conversing; and when I do, they inevitably grow old and die. Because… you have served me well, Van Helsing, and I would invite you to join me in the night. What use is such power as mine, really, if all who can truly appreciate it must die and be forgotten?"

I swallowed hard. His eyes continued to bore into mine, dominating; I felt as if my very soul were laid bare before him. Until he had defeated me, I had dedicated my life to the extermination of his kind. But that had all changed… hadn't it? Wouldn't it be almost appropriate? The ultimate irony?

Yes, he agreed in my mind, lifting his left hand to his face and calmly slashing his wrist with his fangs. He extended his arm to me, so close that the dark blood dripped on my collar. I could smell it keenly: that familiar, cloying scent of decay; but now he opened his mind to me and I felt too, for the first time, his hunger.

It twisted my insides in an agonized frenzy. My mouth watered and my lower jaw stiffened as my stomach heaved with a nauseous, aching starvation. He held his bleeding wrist out calmly, his long, pale fingers hovering beside my right temple.

"Drink," he spoke simply, "and be free."

I felt I should resist him, but I could not at that moment think clearly why. I could see nothing but his eyes, smell nothing but his blood, hear nothing but his voice. A decade of servitude; and now I could be free with such a simple act. I would not have to die… and be forgotten.

Something wasn't right. I clenched my teeth and tried to force my thoughts into coherence. Forgotten. Ten years ago… he'd killed everyone. Everyone but me.

But that wasn't possible.

"Mina," I gasped hoarsely.

His presence became cold. "What?"

I drew a ragged breath with difficulty, trying to ignore the sickly scent of blood. "You couldn't have killed her," I realized, and clarity seemed to return at the revelation. His gaze grew less overwhelming; I could see his face now, and the room beyond. "You couldn't have killed her, so where is she?" My voice gained strength with conviction. "You won, Count; so where is she?"

His expression twisted in fury as his bleeding hand closed suddenly over my throat. "That is none of your concern, Servant! Drink!"

To my own surprise, I heard myself laugh; even as the room seemed to fade and blur with the sudden shortage of oxygen. I forced my chin down, looking at my hands, and saw that I was holding a revolver. The same revolver I had entrusted to Jonathan Harker on a similar night some months ago. Jonathan Harker… who was not dead. I had had it in my hand all along. I lifted it, my arm trembling with the effort.

"This isn't real," I smiled, grimly, and squeezed the trigger.

The world exploded in blood and darkness, and black stars flooded my field of vision; replaced, slowly, by the image of Gabriel's concerned features hovering over me. One of his hands gripped my shoulder; the other was lightly but firmly slapping my face. Gradually, his voice penetrated the dim haze.

"Father? Are you all right? Can you hear me – Doctor Van Helsing, can you hear me?"

I blinked my eyes once, assuring him that I was aware of his presence, and moved my tongue thickly in my mouth. "What happened?" I tried to ask, but it came out as nothing more than an unintelligible mumble. He leaned for a moment out of my range of vision, then returned with a glass of water, which he placed to my lips with the admonition that I sip slowly.

Grateful, if somewhat peeved at his solicitous manner, I did as I was told and found my voice. "What – happened?" I asked again, as I pushed myself up to a sitting position. My recollection of events was already swirling away in a colorless vortex, like a half-remembered dream. I pressed the flat of my hand against my forehead and grimaced.

He patiently pressed the glass into my opposite hand and insisted that I drink. For some reason this triggered a wave of nausea, and I froze for some moments, eyes squeezed shut, swallowing vigorously until the sensation passed. Then I sipped, obediently, and he finally answered me.

"I'm not sure. You said you were going to try lifting the Seal to level one, and then you both just… froze up, for several minutes."

My gaze traveled upward until it fell on the now-familiar mass of red leather sprawled in a chair across the room. Alucard was watching me silently, intently; but his usual smirk was absent. Rather he seemed almost… awestruck. As if he'd suddenly come to the conclusion that two plus two equaled five and had no idea how to retrace his steps.

"I thought I felt… something," Gabriel was saying, "but I'm not as attuned to it as you are, Father." He frowned at me, interrupting my view of the vampire as he looked into my eyes for sign of concussion. "And then you suddenly keeled over. I tried to catch you—"

I held up a hand placatingly against his concern. "I think that now I understand." I handed him the water glass back and rose to my feet, wincing at a lance of pain through my temples. My eyes were set sternly on the monster across the room. "You had to try," I observed.

He returned my gaze frankly, unapologetic but seeming mystified, still, that his attempt had failed. "Of course."

"Had to try what?" Gabriel demanded.

"To test the strength of my chain," Alucard replied, a hint of the usual dryness returning to his voice. "The power of the Seal was in flux. I took advantage of it at its lowest ebb."

I could only recall pieces of the vision now; but that was enough. "He showed me another reality. Wherein he was the master." My brow furrowed thoughtfully. "And if I had taken your… offer, what then? I thought that only a virgin could successfully be turned into one of your kind."

He shrugged diffidently. "True, but that wasn't the point, was it Professor? Had you taken my blood," he spoke the word I had been loathe to voice, plainly, and smiled when he saw my cheek twitch, "it would have been a symbolic recognition of myself as the master. The Seal, I think, would have been broken." His smile drooped abruptly and an annoyed tone crept into his speech. "But you saw through the illusion."

"So I did," I agreed quietly. Our eyes locked for some moments; but it was he who looked away. More clearly then than ever before I could feel the emotions battling for dominance under his calm façade. Anger, frustration, yes; but under that, frank confusion… and the small seeds of respect.

"I think," I spoke with difficulty, withdrawing to my own self, "that we are done here for the night. You will be confined to restriction level five until specific further notice by Gabriel or myself."

"Understood," he grated, his eyes averted and refusing to meet mine.

"Gabriel," I continued in a subdued tone, "if you'll excuse me for a short time… I'll be upstairs momentarily."

My son looked apprehensively between the vampire and myself; but he took the hint of my words and bobbed his head in assent. He let himself out of the room, and I moved to the supply cupboard and sorted through one of the drawers. As the door shut behind him with a definitive click, I withdrew the desired instrument and approached Alucard.

He looked up at me warily as I stood over him, rolling back my left sleeve. "What are you doing?"

"What must be done," I replied impassively; and taking the scalpel in my right hand I opened a clean, precise incision in my left wrist. He did not breath; but I felt him tense all the same as if breath had caught in his throat, as my blood welled swiftly in the wound and began to drip to the floor. He had fed well already tonight – was it really still tonight? It seemed like ages past – but his lips peeled back, and into his eyes came a reluctant, desperate gleam as he stared enraptured at the crimson stream.

"By blood are we bound," I murmured; and no further coaxing was necessary. He slid from his chair and knelt beside me. I felt the pressure of his fangs against my wrist as his mouth closed over the incision; but he made no attempt to further break the skin. He was almost… gentle, his eyes closed in peaceful rapture as he suckled the wound. I felt the invisible Seal pulse between us, replenished by the renewal of the pact. I allowed him to remain there for some minutes, the servant with head bowed before the master; but then I drew my arm back.

"That's enough."

He let go reluctantly, but obediently, his eyelids rising to half mast, still fixed on my wrist as I moved back to the cabinet for a bandage to bind it. He touched the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand, slowly, as if in a daze, and wiped away a few stray drops.

"You may go," I spoke briskly, busy winding gauze around my arm. He did not respond immediately, and I turned to repeat the missive; but he had gone.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Sorry for taking so long with this update. I was godawful sick for several days and it kind of killed my muse. She seems to be convalescing now though. This is sort of an intermediary chapter, but fear not, there shall be action again soon (as you might guess from this). And thecoins will be explained! Eventually!

* * *

I dropped exhausted into my bed at the end of that endless night, as dawn was casting its first pale shadows on the walls; but I woke with restless energy before the sun had reached its zenith. Only human, and still very much drained, I groaned and buried my face for a moment in the pillows, seeking sleep again, but it was determined to elude me now.

A soft oath passed my lips as I threw the covers away and rose, rubbing my eyes. Even that devil in the basement was asleep now; was I marked to have no peace? I sighed resignedly, dressed and shuffled downstairs to the library. If I couldn't sleep I might as well make use of the time.

The coin was where I had left it early this morning: centered on a page of the heavy tome through which I'd been hunting for a reference to it; that is, until I could no longer keep my eyelids propped open. Yawning, I resumed my place at the desk and plucked up the small metal disc, rubbing it between index finger and thumb as I searched the page for the last bit I could remember reading.

Someone must have heard me come down, for the butler arrived after a few minutes with a breakfast tray and a comment that Gabriel was still abed. Lucky him. I thanked the man – not, regrettably, with quite the pleasant tone I could have wished, as I was still grumpy from my pittance of rest – and nibbled on a bit of toast as I resumed my scanning of the text.

Arcane runes were a subject upon which I had quite an abundant library of sources by now; but I had never seen anything like that which was scribed on this cheap bit of metal. I was unable to identify even its origin, much less its meaning. Perhaps it was new? Still, even new runes and spells – such as that binding me to the beast now slumbering in the dungeons – were generally contrived from existing knowledge. To pioneer an entirely new conjuration would be an undertaking of… generations.

I felt my eyebrows knit together in a frown as the sound of footsteps at the door distracted me from my intent perusal. I marked my place in the tome with one finger, and looked up to scold the butler for disturbing me again so soon. In the movement, though, my eyes chanced upon the clock over the mantelpiece; I was surprised to note that it was nearly two in the afternoon. It was also not Smith in the doorway, as I had expected, but Gabriel. And another man.

"Arthur!" I exclaimed, losing my place in the book in my haste to rise from my chair. And then, to my embarrassment, I had to stifle a yawn.

Gabriel sighed. "Please tell me you've slept at least a little since last night, Father."

I waved him off dismissively. "A few hours. Duty calls – what brings you here, Arthur? I didn't hear the bell ring." My eyes surveyed his familiar form and I deduced that he looked rather ragged, himself. Dust clung to his clothing and his normally curly hair was damped down with a sheen of recent sweat. "And in such a hurry?" I ventured.

"Well, as for the bell, Gabe met me in the courtyard. As for the rest…" Arthur grimaced and stepped forward, withdrawing a torn envelope from his vest pocket and holding it out to me. I took it with a puzzled frown, fumbling the contents out. "My wife received this letter this morning from her sister, up Nottingham-way," he explained as I scanned the cramped script. "It's her daughter – my niece – I hate to ask, Doctor, but I thought—"

"Yes," I agreed, interrupting his awkward request. He nodded and looked at me with mute relief. I tucked the letter back into the envelope. "The wasting illness," I summarized aloud, for Gabriel, who was looking between the two of us rather confused. "Fatigue, loss of appetite, brought on by apparent anaemia. Lord Godalming has witnessed these symptoms before: the child," I diagnosed, becoming brisk as I handed him the letter back, "is losing blood, but the parents know not how." I laid a hand on the man's arm. "Of course I shall help you, my friend. I only thank God I returned from abroad in time to receive you; if we're not too late already. But we must hurry. Nottinghamshire is no mean distance from here."

"I've a coach and four waiting in the courtyard," he replied promptly.

"Good man. If we leave directly and don't spare the horses, we might be there by tomorrow night. Gabriel: pack up my personal effects, would you? I'll have to collect my medical kit—"

"Now hold on, Father, if you're going to fight another vampire, then I'm going with you."

I glanced at him distractedly. "Yes, yes, of course you are." I put a marker in my book and shut it, then dropped the coin into my pocket and patted down my clothes absently, going through a mental tally of items we'd need.

Arthur drew me back to the present. "What about, ah…" his eyes were on the light bandage wrapped round my wrist as he nodded his head with meaning.

"Ah, yes." I pursed my lips in a momentary frown. "Well, he'll have to come with us. I'm not about to leave him on his own recognizance. Go on, Gabriel, don't just stand there – we need to be off!"

"But it's the middle of the afternoon?" Arthur queried as my son clattered hurriedly out of the room.

I smiled grimly. "I'll just have to wake him up then, won't I?"

Arthur was more than happy to excuse himself to assist Gabriel in loading the carriage, as I myself descended to the basement. Gloom prevailed here, even at midday, and I brought the lantern by the stairs with me to light the way. I walked past the dungeon-cum-study – he had not entered that room of his own will since the binding, save to retrieve his coffin – and counted the doorways, until I reached a junction of corridors and the dank, musty-smelling unused storeroom he had chosen as his own.

I didn't bother to knock. He'd hardly hear it anyway. I let myself inside, setting the lantern down on the remains of a table against the wall, and steeling myself, approached the coffin. It lay innocuously enough at the far end of the room, just another battered storage crate at a glance, until one noticed the peculiar shape of it. The lid still bore marks from the cross we had affixed to it years ago to imprison him within; but he had long since torn that away, leaving only the plain, weathered wood.

"Alucard," I said loudly, but there was no response. I hadn't really expected one; vampires slept quite literally like the dead. Boldly, and perhaps recklessly, I wedged my hands under the lid of the coffin and pushed it open.

I had to pause then, for the sight of the Count in his repose was unsettling. He lay upon a fine layer of soil carefully arranged at the bottom of the casket: utterly unmoving, for there was no breath, not even a heartbeat to disturb his position. His eyes were closed; his face expressionless; his hands, gloveless, folded neatly over his breast.

"Alucard," I spoke again, and dared reach down to jog his shoulder. A lock of his hair tumbled over my hand; but that was all. I muttered under my breath.

"All right then," I addressed the corpse, "I know one thing you can't ignore." I unwrapped the bandage from my wrist and prodded the small wound. It had already nearly closed; oddly enough, vampire saliva acted as a sort of healing agent. But I was able, grimacing, to pinch and squeeze a bare couple of droplets to the surface. I'd have a bruise to show for it later; but for now, I swept up the blood carefully on my index finger, bent over the coffin and wiped it on the vampire's lower lip.

I thought, then, that I saw the first hint of movement. The slightest twitch of his nostrils; the faintest lift of his chest as he drew in the scent. His lips parted; the tip of his tongue emerged to drag slowly across the smear of scarlet.

And then, with such suddenness that my eyes could not perceive the movement, he was sitting bolt upright, and I felt his hand close viselike over my throat. "Who disturbs my rest?" the inhuman voice hissed forth past bared fangs; his eyes, half-lidded, burned with fury.

I slapped impotently at his iron grip, gasping for air. "I should think," I choked, trying to force confidence into my voice though I was sure it came out only as a pathetic gurgle, "that you would know the taste of my blood by now."

He released me suddenly, his hand popping open and recoiling as though burned. I coughed, trying to regain my breath. He looked curiously at the palm of his hand, then touched two fingers to his lower lip, absently licked off the remnants of my blood, and gave me a direct, albeit puzzled, stare.

"Why did you wake me in the middle of the day?"

"Your master requires your services," I replied gruffly, still clearing my throat to sort out my voice.

"My master can wait until a decent hour," he shot back, snippily, and lay down again, stretching one long arm up to draw the lid down after him. I stopped its descent with an outthrust palm.

"Now," I commanded firmly. He blinked at me, his face betraying disbelief; either at my audacity or the fact that he had actually let go of the lid and was sitting up again, I wasn't certain. But in either case he rose from his bed with unnatural grace, shedding the small bits of earth that had clung to him as he slept, leaving his clothing immaculate as he stepped out of the wooden box.

We stood opposite one another, willful gaze locked with willful gaze, his form towering over mine, for several seconds; then he dipped his head, his raven hair tumbling forward just slightly out of synchrony with the rest of him, and made an exaggerated bow. "What may this humble servant do for his master, so that he might be allowed to get _some_ sleep today?"

I ignored his dripping sarcasm and replied calmly, as I replaced the bandage on my wrist, "I'm sorry." I meant it too, to his palpable surprise. But I knew perfectly well what it felt like to be awakened on short sleep rations. Then: "We're making a trip north. You're coming with us."

"Right now?" he asked. His eyebrows had made a slight journey upward at my apology; now one side of his mouth quirked to follow them.

"Yes. Right now. There's a vampire feeding on a little girl and we're going to take care of it."

His half-bemused smirk turned into a full, knowing grin. "You mean I am."

"No, I mean we are. You are only coming along for insurance; and because I'm hardly going to leave you here by yourself."

He looked almost disappointed for a moment, then the condescending smirk returned. "You are aware of the effect the sun has on… my kind?"

"Yes," I replied briskly, picking up the lantern and moving for the door with the implied directive that he was to follow. "I also know that you are hardly what one could consider average for your… kind; as you yourself intimated last night. You're not afraid of a little daylight, are you?"

"Of course not," he growled, snatching up hat and coat from where he'd draped them over a nearby chair, and shrugging into the latter as he followed me out of the room. The hat was jammed over his head shortly after, his features falling into inscrutable shadow beneath the broad brim, and he was tugging on the second of the silk gloves by the time we climbed the stairs and re-entered the manor proper.

Gabriel was waiting for us, with my traveling case dangling from one hand. "I've got it all here, Father: your tools and reference books," he declared, lifting the bag triumphantly. "Good morning," he added with a bit of a cheeky grin to my reluctant shadow. I heard the whisper of a disgruntled growl over my shoulder.

"Thank you, Gabriel," I spoke as I extinguished the lantern and hung it on its peg by the doorway. I held out my hand for the case, so that I could verify the contents. "And the rest?"

"Loaded and ready to go. Not much: a couple changes of clothes; I thought we'd best travel light."

"I suppose I'm not allowed to bring my coffin, then," Alucard muttered irritably.

"You've slept in the earth before; you can do it again. It won't kill you," the phrase slipped out before I realized what I was saying, and with a grimace I snapped the case shut loudly; but not loudly enough to forestall the dry, basso chuckle that rumbled over my head. "We go now then," I raised my voice over the noise of the vampire's amusement, and moved resolutely to the front door.

Arthur stood awaiting us by the coach outside. It was a sleek-looking vehicle, roomy enough for four inside, but lightly built, unlike the heavy hansom cabs so common in the city. Three bays and a liver chestnut stood harnessed in matching light trappings, stamping occasionally with impatience. I fancied that the lot must have cost him a fair penny, and reflected that although the pension I still drew from the university at Amsterdam for my tenure was sufficient, it was at times convenient to have acquaintances of considerable means. There was, however, no driver.

Arthur grinned as I glanced to him in askance. "I'm not so domesticated as all that, Doctor. I can handle four-in-hand; and all the better for it, I thought, not to involve too many others." His eyes, which had begun the statement upon my face, strayed over my shoulder of their own accord.

"Lord Godalming," Alucard's greeting rippled forth from the shadows between his downturned hat and upturned collar, in a completely inappropriate tone of dark amusement. "So good to see you again."

"Get in," I uttered flatly, and he slithered aboard without further sound. A moment later the curtains were jerked peevishly shut. I handed my bag to Gabriel, who followed him in; but I chose to accompany Arthur on the box seat.

"May God go with us," he muttered as he gathered the lines in his hands. "For the Devil surely does. Hya!" He snapped the reins briskly, and we were off.


End file.
